


Taken, but this time, there's no Liam Neeson.

by Knight_Perzival



Category: Iron Man (Comics), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Avengers Tower, Captured, Dead Aunt May (it happened in the past), Domestic Avengers, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapped, M/M, No Slash, Romance, Secret Identity, Secret Identity Fail, Some Fluff, Torture, all the avengers eventually basically, but it's for science, but peter and tony have to suffer first, but romance abound!, eventually, homeless peter, not confusing for either fan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-06-08 16:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 46,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15247017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knight_Perzival/pseuds/Knight_Perzival
Summary: Peter Parker is used to his infamous 'Parker luck', so it's no surprise when the paper stops paying him, and, long story short, he's homeless. It is a surprise, however, when he's captured by a mysterious group who seem to have targeted him specifically. And, he's even more surprised when he realizes his cell-mate is none other than Tony Freaking Stark.(Romances and hurt/comfort abound, along with some good ol' quippy one-liners here and there! Eventually it's an 'All the Avengers live in the tower together' kinda fic. Thanks to everyone who reads!)





	1. Chapter One

_I would say I’m sorry, Peter, but the truth is, your photos have always been low in quality. We needed you because you seemed to be the ONLY one who could get photos, but now, everyone has a camera in their back pocket. We can copy paste better photos from free sources on the internet. We can’t accept your photos anymore._

_We can’t accept your photos anymore._

The words rang in Peter’s head, hours later. Yesterday, he had been employed, (at least MOSTLY employed, kind of), and with a roof over his head. (Or at least, MOST of a roof). Now, he was without either. His landlady, bless her spiteful black heart, had kicked him out. He supposed it wasn’t technically her fault, but come on, he saved the city on a daily basis! Wasn’t that rent enough? (He saved mugging victims, at least. Maybe a couple bikes that had faulty locks. Occasionally he dealt with real villains-remember the Goblin, anyone?)

Now, he sat, more than twenty stories in the air, on the edge of a windowsill. An empty hot dog bun lay forlornly in his palm. There were the remnant stains of mustard and ketchup (relish is for people who like _turkey_ dogs), but the white bun lay empty. Perched up on the windowsill, he tried to distract himself with the view of New York sprawled out in front of him. It practically sparkled in the night. You couldn't see any stars through the light pollution, but it barely mattered if you were up high enough. The city itself was beautiful, lights twinkling beneath him almost like the stars hidden above. Perhaps if he had been closer to the ground, he could have seen the dirt and grime, but even that thought made him smile. New York was like no other city. Even it’s filth was special. 

He raised his hot dog (or lack thereof) to his mouth, regretfully remembering a time when food was one of the few things he didn’t have to worry about.  Even though her cooking had been mediocre at best, Peter could always rely on Aunt May. But now, he couldn't afford to go and buy a new hot dog, despite the fact he had been so careless as to let the meat fall right out of the bun. That had probably been a not-so-fun surprise for whoever he had been swinging over, he thought, the image of a lawyer on the East Side suddenly being beaned over the head with a hot dog from the Bronx bringing a smile to his face.

The smile slowly slipped off his face as he chewed the first bite of slightly stale, slightly mustardy bread. His mask was thrown behind him, on the slightly cleaner of the two blankets he had brought with him from the apartment. That, a few pairs of jeans, a couple of t-shirts, and his spider-suit was basically all he had brought with him.

Luckily, he wasn’t worried about his being discovered here, hidden away on the top floor of an abandoned building. It was scheduled for demolition in a few months, but until then, Peter was fairly confident no one else could get to the top floor. There were too many missing flights of stairs and broken elevators to do that. And, Peter thought wryly, the roof probably would not be able to support even the smallest of helicopters. So, unless you could fly, you were out of luck. Or unless you had spider-like abilities, he thought to himself, fiddling idly with his broken web-slinger. He still had two working ones (one and a half, his brain corrected) but they were running out of the material, and he couldn't afford to buy more. He couldn't even afford to buy _food._ He ate the rest of his hot dog bun frustratedly, finishing it in a few bites. His metabolism begged for more, but he ignored it.

He hopped down to his makeshift bed, hoping to catch a few hours of much-needed rest before his patrol that night. He needn’t have hoped, because as soon as his head hit the ground where a pillow should have been, he was fast asleep.

***

“Yes, I’m aware JARVIS,” Tony said, the annoyance dripping off his voice in waves. “But, as I told you all day, I don’t care.”

“Sir, I know you’re missing the team, but this could be serious.” JARVIS insisted. Tony wondered if it had been a good idea to give JARVIS so much of a personality. Or free thought at all.

“Not as serious as I am about you shutting it,” Tony said, almost absentmindedly as he tinkered with the reactor beam in front of him.

“Shutting what, sir?” JARVIS responded, as if he knew exactly what he was saying. Tony didn’t doubt that he did, and therefore he ignored his creation. If JARVIS wanted to be touchy, he would have to go bother someone else. Even though, technically speaking, there was no one else in the penthouse with them. Or, really, with Tony. He wasn’t sure if JARVIS counted enough as a person to make it a ‘them’. He certainly hoped so, because if not, well then his life was just sad. And Tony Stark refused to make his life sad. 

“There!” Tony said finally, triumphantly hoisting a shining metal cuff up in the air.

“Sir, if I may be so bold-”

“You may not,” Tony cut in quickly, barely giving the AI another thought. He slipped the cuff under his sleeve and fiddled with it for a moment before grinning in what was unadulterated joy. He raised his arm and shot the glass window in front of himself, shattering it soundlessly with a quick white light from his wrist.

“Impressive,” JARVIS said flatly.

“Let’s see you invent a new type of blaster in an hour and a half,” Tony said, casually aiming at the pane of glass still intact. He closed one eye for good measure, and fired, throwing more shards of glass to the ground. He allowed a small smile to turn his lips for a moment before gesturing to a clunky robot in the corner of his now glass covered lab.

“Dummy, clean this up,” Tony instructed, waving a finger to the mess he had strewn across the lab’s interior. The slow robot wheeled his way over, taking corners even slower.

Tony walked toward the exit door, not pausing as it opened automatically in front of him.

“Sir, your eleven o’clock is still waiting,” JARVIS reminded him with a proverbial nudge.

“What time is it now?” He asked, wiping the grease off his upper arms with a silk towel.

“Quarter past twelve,” He responded, the unapproving tone apparent in his false tinny voice.

“Wonderful,” Tony said, throwing the towel behind him as he walked into the elevator to his main floor, the floor for guests, and the public, and other unscrupulous things. On a good day, he’d only have to go here once, or maybe not at all. Today was not a good day. First, his new assistant got his coffee order wrong, so she had to be fired. Again. Secondly, he’d already had to be to the main floor once for the bimonthly board meeting. Generally speaking, he skipped those meetings, but JARVIS warned him that he was beginning to lose his footing with the board. Again. So, all in all, this would be his third trip to the forty-second floor. Which, of course, made today three times worse than days he did not go to forty-second floor.

“Mr. Stark?” As soon as the elevator doors dinged open, a tall, lithe woman stepped up from her seat, carrying a dark clipboard. Her delicate high heels made her appear almost six feet tall, maybe even taller. It certainly felt over six feet tall to Tony, at least.

“I’m here to discuss the damages to the Central IP Building from three and a half weeks ago,” She said directly, without a preamble of any sorts.

“The what now?” He responded distractedly, running his hands through his hair, which was still a mess from his short period in the lab.

“Your little ‘test run’, Mr. Stark, destroyed almost the entire seventh floor. Despite all your messing around, flying a suit from the comfort of your home might actually have consequences,” She finished sharply, looking him up and down.

“Oh,” Tony said slowly, looking everywhere in the room but her. “Oh!” He said, louder a few moments later. “I remember that. Just bill me.” He waved his hand nonchalantly.

“That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about it happening again. I’m tired of you buying your way out of every problem you have.”

“Honey, if I could buy my way out of all my problems, you’d be meeting with a very different man right now,” Tony said, his voice condescending.

“I’m not smiling, Mr. Stark. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me ‘honey’.”

“Well, what do you prefer? Long legs? Blondie?” He smirked at her.

“Jamie Wainwright would do just fine,” She said, matching his smirk even better. “I run the building in question.

“Well, my apologies, Miss Wainwright. What would you have me do, if not offer to pay for any and all damages I caused?” He asked, his confidence unwavering.

“I would have you publically agree to disengage in any ‘experiments’ on public property, or at the very least, sign this.” She handed him a clipboard. He took it reluctantly.

“What does this state?” He asked, flipping through the pages.

“Basically, that you take full responsibility, and that it won’t happen again.” She said, tilting her nose upwards.

“Fine by me,” Tony said, jotting his signature quickly. He knew that it was dangerous to sign things before his lawyers (of which there were dozens) had looked it over, but he couldn't bring himself to schedule yet another meeting in this godforsaken floor.

“Just like that?” Miss. Wainwright asked, finally a little taken off guard.

“Just like that,” Tony said with a wink. “If that’s all, I’ve got other things to attend to.”

“I suppose that is all,” Wainwright said slowly, still staring at the signed contract in her hands.

“If there’s anything weird about that contact I didn’t notice when I signed it, my lawyers will be all over you and your building before you can say ‘court date’, alright?” Tony added as he walked away from the still-shocked Wainwright.

As soon as he was out of ear-shot, he addressed his own personal assistant, the currently un-fired one. “JARVIS?” He hopped back in the elevator, enjoying the privacy of being the only one in his own private elevator.

“Yes, sir?” Came JARVIS’s programmed response.

“Can you please do me a favor, and buy the Central IP Building on Fourth street as soon as possible? Wave through any waiting fees, there’s no cap on this.” Tony instructed, a slightly wicked smile on his face that no one could see but him, in the gleaming shine of his polished elevator interiors.

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS responded after a moment of silence.

“I don’t remember programming you to question my decisions,” Tony said, tilting his face toward the ceiling, raising one eyebrow.

“No, you programmed me to be smart, remember? Something you seem to have forgotten about,” Came the snarky reply.

“Just do it,” Tony repeated, stepping out of the elevator, a definite knot in his tight shoulders.

“Very well,” JARVIS agreed, with what could have been a sigh, but AI’s don’t sigh. Right?

***

Peter woke up to the feeling of water, drenching him to the bone. It was raining, and from the looks of it, had been raining for quite some time. Or rather, from the feel of it. Peter’s whole body was shaking, and he was drenched, his suit and himself sopping wet. He hopped up quickly and moved, away from the window and into some shelter, but the damage was done.

"Perfect," He said dejectedly, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain falling all around them. His mask was still dry, at least. A silver lining? No, not really. Just a coincidence.

Might as well go patrol now, he thought, disheartened by the idea. He stood up slowly, gripping his mask.

“At least the rain won’t bother me now that I’m already wet,” He said aloud, to no one in particular as he pulled his mask over his face and leaped from his twentieth story windowsill, arms stretching wide in a swan dive.

“ _This is more like it!”_ Peter exclaimed loudly, his voice lost in the wind and rain. He kept falling, tucking and doing a summersault mid-air before shooting his webbing straight across the street, hooking onto a building across from him, the line secure, even in the downpour.

While he was swinging across the city, nothing, not a downpour, not homelessness, not even Aunt May’s death (mostly) made him sad. It was just him, the air, and the city. And the rain, right now. He concentrated, trying to feel for something, somebody to go save. Or at least help.

As he swung around New York City during the wee hours of the morning, he found himself thinking, unironically, as he always did, that _This is the city that truly doesn’t ever sleep. Even when some people probably should._ Peter noted as he swung over some young kids who couldn't have been older than himself walking around, obviously intoxicated. He let them go, shaking his head minutely. He’d been drunk, truly drunk, only twice in his life, the day M.J. broke up with him, and then the night after Aunt May’s funeral. His metabolism made it harder to get drunk, which wasn’t always something he disliked. It had come in handy in the past, a fond memory of himself drinking round after round with Harry and only feeling a light buzz coming to mind for a moment. He quickly crushed it, not wanting to think about what had happened only three months later.

“HELP!” A scream from a few blocks over caught Peter’s attention, and as if on a dime in the mid-air, he turned, twisting and slinging his webbing to a building southwest of him. She couldn't be too far away.

In a few seconds, he arrived. He let himself drop twenty feet from the second story to the ground, a loose easy feeling in his shoulders. Homeless, who? He was Spider-Man, defender of the meek and helpless.

But, somehow this woman didn’t seem helpless. There was smile on her face, and a bright look in her eye. The two men behind her were wearing ski masks, their expression unreadable, but their stance was meant to be threatening. Peter took a step back, shrugging his shoulders.

“Can I help you tonight, gentlemen? Lady?” He asked, bouncing lightly from one foot to the other, glancing at the three faces in front of him, all of which were still silent. “Coulda sworn I heard someone ask specifically for help from right over here, like, two seconds ago,” He prompted uneasily, a smile still wavering on his face beneath the mask. The rain fell harder. The woman’s hair was plastered to her skull in a wet matte, strands seemingly glued to her face.

“I knew there was something fishy about this,” Peter said after another silent moment, his spidey-sense now pounding in his head, a soundless but deafening warning in the back of his mind.

“Nothing fishy at all,” Said the woman suddenly, fishing in her handbag for a moment. “I did ask for your help. Hollered for it, even. We need it after all.”

“We?” Asked Spidey, but not before all three of them pulled out a gun, something small but foreboding and aimed it directly at him.

“Wait a moment,” Spider-Man said, raising his hands slowly, fingers poised on the web-shooters. Just as he pressed down, and leapt, aiming for their arms, all three shot him, as if on cue, embedding him with huge darts, two on his torso, and one particularly painful one in his neck.

“What...” Was all Peter could croak out as he fell to the ground, landing in a puddle, splashing the three of them with cold dirty rainwater. They seemed not to notice as they crowded in closer, studying their captured prey.

***

“If I’m not supposed to send the suit out alone,” Tony said snidely, stepping into the Iron Man suit, “Then I guess I’ll just have to go with it.” He raised his head a few inches, addressing his AI. “If I happen to die in this untested suit, please hold the funeral in Miami, and also sue the shit out of Miss what's-her-name from today, thanks.”

JARVIS didn’t respond.

“You’ll regret that, if I truly do die,” He prodded the program, glancing around his ceiling, even though he knew better than anyone that just because his speakers were in the ceiling tile and on the upper levels, it didn’t mean JARVIS _himself_ was. Bad habits.

“It’s on your head, then,” Said Tony, and then he launched himself out of the window.

He dropped a few feet and then kicked in the repulsors, soaring dozens of feet above even the tallest buildings in seconds. The rain from the last night was gone, but the whole city seemed to have a wet gleam as Tony kept rising, his shining city becoming smaller and smaller until it seemed like a toy set. And then, he plummeted into a controlled dive, spinning until he couldn't see straight. And he loved it.

Feet before he hit the roof of a building underneath him, he righted himself, pushing himself upward with the repulsors, shooting up into the sky just as quickly as he fell. _This_ is what being a billionaire was all about. The suit from the cave in Afghanistan was but a distance memory as he flew among the buildings with ease, passing each one with what would have given a lesser man whiplash.

Suddenly though, his left side faltered.

“JARVIS?” He asked quickly from inside the helmet. “JARVIS, what was that?” The repulsers sputtered once, and then went out. Tony went into a tailspin, approaching the ground quickly. He did his best to aim for an unpopulated area. Maybe he should have listened to that woman from this morning and been more careful with his suits and their excursions, he thought for a split second as he crashed through a window, glass shattering around him and his new suit. The building was long abandoned, thank god, and he shot out the other side, breaking through a plywood planking covering where the other window should have been.

_At least I slowed myself down._ Tony thought dryly as he came to crashing halt in the alley behind the building. Where on earth was he?

He pressed the side of his mask lightly. Nothing happened. He tapped it harder until he was basically pounding on his metal neck. Finally, his mask retracted.

“JARVIS! What the hell was that?” Tony asked, breathless.

“I’m afraid JARVIS can’t hear you anymore,” Said a voice, stepping out from the shadows streaming around the buildings. The sunset would have beautiful, Tony thought, if only he could see it past the skyscrapers around him.

“Who are you supposed to be, and what have you done with JARVIS?” Tony asked calmly, his metal feet making his footsteps sound heavy.

“I’ve hacked him, of course. Oh, and I’ve hacked your suit. I expected it to be empty, but” She shrugged, and hit a button on her iPad. Tony’s suit was forced to it’s knees. “This is a nice surprise.”

With that, she crouched, and leaned in close to Tony’s face, close enough for him to smell her perfume. It was expensive, and very light. Something floral, he thought absentmindedly, his brain still working a mile a minute. Hack JARVIS? Who was this woman? Just as he was formulating what was looking to be a very witty response, he felt something sting his neck.

“Goodnight,” She said, smirking just like that woman had earlier today, as if she held all the cards. Except, thought Tony cynically, _this_ woman did hold all the cards. He felt himself waver and then topple over. His neck kept pounding, a smarting pain that throbbed. He pulled his hand up to feel it, but either it or the suit didn’t respond, and soon, nothing did.

They had him. They had both of them.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter meets his new cell-mate, who is the last person he expected.

The first thing Peter noticed when he woke up was that he was dry, finally. The second thing was that he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. A hand flew up to his face, grasping at it’s features. _His mask. Where was it?_ Panic flew through Peter for a moment, and he sat up instantly. As soon as he did, his head spun and his stomach turned over.

He didn’t know where he was.

The room he was in wasn’t small, but it wasn’t large either. _In the city, it would be a good sized bedroom_ , he thought in the back of his mind. He turned, the absence of his suit making him feel more naked than the boxers. There were no windows, and the walls were a dark stone gray with a rough texture. His eyes darted from corner to corner, trying to take it in.

He jumped at least a foot in the air when he finally noticed him.  In the opposite corner, huddled , in a thin blanket, was the shape of a man. He was maybe a few inches taller, and a little wider than Peter himself. Peter quieted, hiding his face in a visceral reaction from the still sleeping figure. What he wouldn’t give for his mask right now… He cursed his luck inwardly. Of _course_ he would be kidnapped, and of _course_ his suit would be taken. It’s not like he had the money for another suit! At the reminder, his stomach growled, which, given the situation, was just plain rude. Peter made the executive decision to ignore it and hope it didn’t happen again.

And, as with all things, especially those of the ‘bad’ variety, they seemed to travel in numbers. The man in the corner put a serious wrench in any of the plans Peter had been formulating. He couldn't just use his powers and escape, because A, he wasn’t sure that would work, and B, he couldn't reveal his identity.

“Who the hell are you?” Snarled the voice from the corner suddenly. Peter jumped back, his spine flat against the wall. If the floor had suddenly dropped out from beneath the two of them, he would have been fine, clinging to that wall.

“I’m-” His mind raced. He wasn’t Spider-Man, obviously, but using his real name was out too, so... He glanced at the man again, mainly to stall for time, and his jaw dropped in recognition. . It couldn't be -- no way. There was absolutely no way.  For a moment, a strange, backwards moment, Peter’s heart leapt with joy and excitement.

“You’re Tony Stark!” Peter’s jaw was practically hanging open.

Mr. Stark closed his eyes for a moment, and breathed deeply. “I asked who _you_ are, kid.”

Despite the fact Peter was talking to the richest man in New York, he couldn't stop the instinctive reply: “I’m not a kid,” Peter blurted back. Unlike when he used to complain to Aunt May, or defend himself from beat cops, it was actually true. He was twenty-two now, not a kid by anyone’s definition.

“Okay, Mr. Not-A-Kid, who are you then?” Mr. Stark got to his feet, a hand leaning heavily on the wall for support.

“Uh-” He hesitated for a moment before saying, meekly, “Peter.”

“Do you have a last name there, ‘Peter’, or is it more mumbling?” He asked, looking around the room. He saw the locked door, the gray walls, the lack of windows.

His expression seemed to soften marginally when he saw the young man’s terrified face.

“Peter Morgan,” Peter introduced himself, scratching the back of his neck. Stark nodded, a small thoughtful gesture, and went right back to studying their small cell.

Peter studied the billionaire, seeing little things he hadn’t noticed at first slipping through the cracks. His features were worn, and the bags around his eyes hung deeply. He wondered if he had bags to match, or if his healing ability had hidden his own exhausted state. Mr. Stark’s goatee was scruffy, and a five o’clock shadow was beginning to take over the carefully manicured face.

“Got anything to say, Peter?” He said, after deciding on what to call the kid standing across from him in their little room.

“You know, I usually do, but, right now-” Peter trailed off, searching detachedly about the room. A crazed part of him was telling him to impress Tony Stark (Tony Stark!), but the rational part of him was telling him to keep it together long enough to escape. (Even as he thought it, the pessimistic side of his brain asked why. _What was waiting for him? Abandoned buildings?_ )

The two of them stood in silence for a long time, Mr. Stark’s singular blanket crumpled on the floor behind them. It was the only sign that either of them had actually slept there. There was no bathroom, and nothing to distinguish the walls from each other or from the ceiling, apart from the thick metallic unmarked door.

“So,” Peter said, his voice cracking in the room’s silence. “I guess, you probably don’t know much about me-”

“Kid, I know nothing about you,” His voice was distracted, bordering on uninterested.

“There’s not much to know, I guess.” He paused, and looked around nervously. “How do we get out of here?” He continued after a second, his left heel scuffing the cement ground nervously. He needed to think logically about how to leave this place. They didn’t even know the people they were dealing with. _Or if ‘they’ were people at all,_ thought Peter, thinking of the invasion of New York.

“You’re a civilian?” Was all he said in response. Peter glanced at him, taken aback.

“I mean - yes. I’m a civilian. Normal, run-of-the-mill friendly civilian.” He cocked a slight grin toward Stark, and considered offering his hand to shake, but thought better of it. _Too soon, Parker._

“You’re a weird civilian,” Stark replied, walking over to the door.

Peter’s stomach fell a few inches and he felt his shoulders curl in. “Weird?”

“Anybody I know would be losing it right now,” Stark said, running his hands along the edge of the doorframe. “Of course.” He shrugged, “I don’t exactly know too many civilians personally anymore.”

“Well, you know,” Peter said sheepishly, crossing his arms over his chest, “I’m a New Yorker, right? We’re used to it.”

“So, where  you from? In the city, I mean.” Stark said. He’d started tapping different spots across the door in a way that _seemed_ like it might be intentional, but really didn’t look it.  Despite himself, Peter felt the urge to roll his eyes. . Was Tony making pleasant small-talk while they were holed up in some dungeon?

“And,also,” Stark straighten, and turned to Peter. “Where are your clothes?”

Before Peter could sputter out an answer, he and Mr. Stark heard a click in the door’s lock. The glanced at each other for a split second before swiveling to face the door.

Tony’s expression hardened automatically, and he took a slightly defensive stance, his legs loose and his shoulders a little higher around his head. Peter just wished he was wearing more clothes. (Spandex was _not_ the same as underwear, no matter _what_ M.J. used to say)

The door began to swing open, creaking on its hinges. Peter’s stomach churned with fear, and he glanced to his side at Tony’s stone cold expression, wishing he could emulate it. He settled for what always made him feel better -- stupid smiles and even more stupid jokes. An easy smile that didn’t quite touch his eyes settled on his face. His new roommate didn’t seem to notice.

The door was fully open. The woman from the night before -- Peter was gonna call her Lady Spidernapper -- stood under the frame, her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She was wearing business attire, a smart jacket and tight pencil skirt. Her heels were tall, spindly, and thoroughly professional.

“What do you want with us?” Stark said. It wasn’t really a question.

This was the point where Peter probably could’ve said something really cool, like _‘You’ll never get away with this’_ or _‘The Avengers are gonna find us you know.’_ Unfortunately however, what came out of his mouth was: “This place is only getting two stars from me.”

Tony gave him a frustrated look that he ignored. There were bigger fish to fry. Namely, the woman standing forebodingly in the doorway of their cell. The question hung in the air for a moment until, without warning, Stark leapt forward, fist cocked. She sidestepped him delicately, clicking a small button on a remote at her side, forcing him to fall to the ground suddenly, teeth clenched in pain.

“Make that one star,” Peter amended, his voice light.

“You can be quiet, Peter,” The woman said. Her voice was like it had been that night, lilting, as if she knew a secret about everyone in the room. “Nice boxers, though.”

Peter shrank back minutely, shoulders hunching instinctually at the comment, as if to hide himself from her view.

“Leave the kid alone,” He croaked out from his spot on the cement below them.

“Oh, dear.” She clicked her remote again, and Stark gasped in relief, getting to his feet slowly. Peter noticed with uneasiness that his limbs were shaking.

“Sorry,” Peter said to Mr. Stark, scanning his neck worriedly.

“Don’t worry, Peter, you’ve got one too,” She wiggled the remote in the air in front of them both. His stomach turned.

“I said,” Stark took a deep breath. “Leave the kid alone.”

“Now, that would defeat the whole purpose of him being here, would it not?” She said, her demeanor still difficult to read. It was a cross between receptionist and executioner.

“Mr. Stark, I can take of myself,” Peter said, not taking his eyes off the woman in front of them or her remote.

“I’m sure you can,” The woman replied, her eyes focused on Tony.

“Kid…” Stark said, his eyebrows contracted worryingly.

“Now,” The woman walked further into their cell, leaving the door behind her open. Craning his neck, Peter could see a long, similarly gray hallway laid behind her.

“Now…” Peter repeated, impatience and fear making his skin crawl, and his filter break down even further. Assuming, of course, he had much of a filter to begin with. Which he didn’t.

“Peter, do I need to tell you to be quiet again?” She asked, sounding eerily like a school teacher. Her head tilted slightly to one side, a knowing look gleaming in her eyes. Stark threw a warning look Peter’s way, and intervened.

“What do you want with us?” He asked quickly, taking back control of the conversation.

“Very different things, I assure you,” she said with a gracious smile that neither of them trusted for a moment.

“Peter is interesting simply because of _what_ he is,” She explained, walking between them slowly.

“Could you be _more_ vague?” Stark asked, his hands still in fists. Peter kept quiet, afraid he’d let too much slip if he said anything now. Keeping his hero and personal lives separate and his secret identity intact had always been like balancing on a tightrope, but right now, he felt like he was about to fall off.

“But, you, Mr. Stark, our surprise guest, you’re interesting because of _who_ you are. Your mind…” She sighed contentedly, but the vicious, calculating gleam in her eye remained right where it was. “It’s amazing.”

“Well, call my people. I’m sure my hourly rates are far above what you can afford,” Mr. Stark said. She simply raised the remote again, causing him to flinch. His face reddened, and Peter watched as he physically tried to keep his anger contained.

“But,” She clapped, studying her two prisoners appraisingly. “Now, I’m just here for the lovely Peter...Morgan, did you say? Tony, we’ll be back soon. Or maybe,” she said, looking Peter up and down, “Maybe a little longer than soon.”

“Finally going to show me where the bathroom is, then?” Peter asked, firmly ignoring the fear swirling in his stomach. Since he felt like he was about to throw up, he’d say that was an accomplishment in and of itself.

“If I must, but I admit, we have bigger plans.” She winked conspiratorially at him. Then she turned to address Tony. “We’ll be back, and I expect you to remain in good behavior. If not…” She cocked her head warningly at him. “Well, you’d certainly feel terrible if something happened to this innocent young man, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ll be fine, Mr. Stark,” Peter said, his voice sounding a hell of a lot more confident than he felt.

The door closed behind him and the woman, a heavy resounding thump that echoed across the hall around them. They were alone.

***

Just as the door shut behind them, Tony ran forward, pounding on it. He highly doubted her little remote would work through the metal and cement that surrounded him now that the door was shut.

“Don’t! Hurt! Him!” He shouted, his voice raw. He wondered if his voice could be heard through the door. He saw as Peter glanced back and gave a tiny, wavering smile, but the woman just kept walking forward, the click of her heels almost silent through the thick door. After they had disappeared behind a corner, Tony lingered for a moment, half hoping to see Peter running back, alone, holding the key to their release. When another ten seconds passed to no avail, he accepted his situation.

He wasn’t sure what exactly was with that Peter kid, but he didn’t trust him. _Well,_ Tony considered carefully, dropping to a crossed legged position on his blanket, _trust wasn’t quite the right word._ The way he had talked to that woman – _he still didn’t know her name_ – that was real. It had been confident, _he_ had been confident. It’s one thing to make the stupid jokes, but another altogether to be level-headed. Peter hadn’t been angry, or stammering, or making any jokes nervously. His voice was as steady as always.

While he had been talking to Tony, he was stammering, blushing, and excitable, but there had still been a very calculated exterior. He didn’t know anyone, not one person, Avenger or not, that would have responded to this situation with a _smile_ like Peter had. Tony remembered his lopsided grin, somehow carefree and inviting. Tony shook his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts. Maybe the kid was just clinically insane. As soon as the thought crossed his mind, he rolled his eyes. _I have to get out of here. Enough about Morgan._ But, even as he thought that, something didn’t feel right in the back of his mind. He scowled at himself, and repeated the thought.

_WE have to get out of here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone!! I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. Let me know how you liked it (or if you didn't!) below, and you should expect the next chapter in a day or two!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's leaving comments and kudos, it means so much! Also, a note, if anyone was confused by the last chapter, it's because I had accidentally uploaded the unedited version at first. (I've since fixed it.) In that train of thought, if anyone is interested in being a beta reader, let me know!! Now, on with the show!

“Is this place even  _ on _ Yelp?” Peter asked as he looked around, noting the same grey walls in the hallway as in his own cell. The woman ignored him. He wondered if she would be doing a lot of that in the hours to come.

“This way, Mr. Parker,” She said, pausing by a door. 

Peter’s heart stopped for a moment. “Um-I’m sorry-I don’t-”

“Peter Parker, age 22, graduated Midtown High, attended Bronx College until the death of your aunt in freshman year.” Her voice was bored, clerical. “Needless to say, we know who you are.” She smiled, a tight, strained expression that didn’t reach her eyes, and gestured for him to come inside the room. “We’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

Peter couldn't come up with a witty reply to that. How long had they known? Had the last year of bad luck ( _ worse  _ luck) really  _ been _ just bad luck? A thought crossed his mind, a thought that chilled him to the core. Were they behind the car crash that took Aunt May’s life? 

“Peter? What are you waiting for?” She asked, leaning coyly on the doorway. “This room was made with you specifically in mind.”

Peter took a step forward, dread pounding in his ears in time with his spidey-sense. Every fiber of his being was telling him to run, to do whatever he could do to get out, but he remembered Tony’s incident, and kept moving. His feet shuffled softly against the floor, the pad of his foot making nearly silent  _ flops _ against the floor. 

As soon as he was inside, a chill entered his body. A chair, almost like a dentist’s chair, stood alone in the center of the room. There were sturdy looking straps attached to each arm, and one long one attached to the bottom, presumably for his legs. A table stood next to it, gleaming metal. Chests and boxes rest upon it, and Peter’s mind couldn't stop wondering about what might be inside of them, as much as he tried to squish down the thought.

“Well?” The woman entered after him, giving a sweeping gesture to the room around her. A sparkle of pride shone in her eye. “How does it look?”

“I’d rather be at the dentist,” Peter said, backing away from the chair with one tiny unnoticeable step. “And, that’s saying something, cause I haven’t been to the dentist in years.”

“I’m sure we’ll explore those teeth of yours eventually, if it makes you feel any better,” Said the woman, who sounded like she knew full well it wouldn’t make him feel any better at all. 

“Oscar,” She snapped her fingers and then pointed at Peter. A man - presumably Oscar - walked up from a dark corner of the room. He approached Peter, carefully and slowly, as if he were approaching a fierce predator. Peter didn’t move. He was stronger than this guy -- he knew that. Despite the fact Oscar was built like a pro wrestler, he knew that he had to be stronger than him. He had the strength of a spider! Or, a human sized spider, at least.

A part of his pride protested as Oscar led him to the chair. His feet dragged, he pulled his arms from Oscar’s grip. The woman zapped him quickly with her remote, causing all of Peter’s muscles to seize at once, and he fell to his knees. She stopped, almost immediately. 

“I want to start with a prime specimen.” She told Oscar conversationally. Peter’s breathing was still a little ragged in the background.

“Get up,” Oscar said, his voice deep and rough. Peter climbed into the chair, his body shaking slightly.  _ Goddamn it, keep it together Parker, _ he thought desperately as the straps were being pulled over his lean forearms and legs. He tested them, breathing heavily. They held. There wasn’t even any leeway. 

“Like I said,” The woman began, pulling on a white lab coat. “We’ve been waiting a long time for you.”

“Where’s your name tag?” Peter asked. “Usually lab coats have name tags,” He pointed out, nodding toward the woman’s breast pocket, where there was nothing. “You know.” He shrugged as best he could. “Hello, My Name Is…”

“Cute.” She snapped a face mask over the bottom part of her face, and turned to the table beside her. 

“I’ve been trying to get a tight ten down, but you know how it is,” Peter said, looking anywhere than the metal chests. “Superhero-ing keeps you busy.”

“You’ll have plenty of time alone with your thoughts now,” The woman said with what could have almost been a chuckle. Peter barely noticed, the only thing running through his mind was the image of the woman, now holding a knife. It was long and thin, and razor sharp. 

“Before we get started,” she said, delicately placing the knife on the lid of the chest she had retrieved it from, “we’ll need to know your vitals.”

Oscar walked up again, bringing a hospital machine up with him. It wheeled next to Peter, wires and tubes hanging off it like a thousand tiny snakes. He taped them to Peter’s different spots on Peter’s body methodically, almost automatically, like he’d done this before: , one snug against his temple, two on either side of his torso, one directly over his heart. As soon as Oscar flipped a switch, Peter’s heart rate was broadcasted across the room, a steady if quick beeping pattern echoing across the cement walls. It was slightly erratic, every beep an announcement of how Peter was feeling. (Scared, is how he was feeling.  _ Scared, scared, scared, beep, beep, beep. _ )

“I think that about covers it,” She said, wiping her hands and picking up the knife again.

“What are you going to do with that?” Peter asked, his voice slightly higher than he would have liked it.

“You’ve got a fantastic healing ability,” The woman drew her eyebrows together and shook her head in appreciation. “I’d go so far as to call it miraculous even. I’ve watched videos where you take two, three, four bullets, and you’re out on patrol again the next day.” She clicked her tongue, dragging the knife along Peter’s pale skin, her voice soft and crooning. “Imagine what your blood, your healing ability could do for the world? Heal every sickness, end every disease?” She gave him a comforting look. “That’s the work of a  _ true  _ hero.”

“I prefer my blood to stay on the inside of my body, actually,” Peter said, squirming slightly underneath the light touch of the blade. How on earth did he know what she was going to do with the blood? For all he knew, she might just sell it on the black market, and earn herself a cool million. For all he knew, she would kill him, and take his corpse as spoils, and then just sell  _ that _ on the black market.

“Well, we’re not drawing blood yet.” She laughed, and reconsidered. “I suppose we are, but not strictly medically speaking. I mean that we are going to test the lengths of your healing ability first. It’s more of a...curiosity, really.”

“How far are you going for these ‘lengths’?’” Peter asked. “An alive Spider-Man in the hand is worth two dead ones in the bush, you know.”

“I don’t know where you think we’re getting two Spider-Men, but it’d be a waste to kill you, especially after all the trouble we’ve gone to.” Peter’s heart sank at that.

She turned, whispered something unintelligible in Oscar’s ear. He left the room, closing the door softly behind him. It was just Peter and her now.

“So, where should we begin?” She dipped the knife lightly into the soft skin of Peter’s inner elbow, watching his blood pool in the crook of his arm. Peter winced slightly, but said nothing. A moment later, she wiped it away. Peter looked down at his arm. Where a second ago had been a cut, there was now a small white half-moon scar imprinted on his skin. And by tomorrow, even that would be gone, no doubt. 

“See?” Peter said. “I heal. Look, there’s even proof. Can we be done now?” 

“But we’ve barely scratched the surface,” She murmured, glancing up at the machine.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Peter said under his breath.

“Some would consider this a fatal cut,” She said,and suddenly dug her knife all along his upper forearm, splitting the vein. Blood gushed everywhere, and Peter gasped up at the ceiling, his chest heaving for air. His head spun, and he felt bile rising in the back of his throat.  _ This is just the beginning, _ he thought to himself, unable to stop the miserable feeling rising up in him. 

She pulled the knife away, giving him a moment of reprieve before repeating the action on the other arm. This time, Peter couldn't stop the small groan that escaped his lips as the knife cut through his skin. In some ways, he was glad he didn’t have his suit now.  _ I wouldn’t be able to afford the dry-cleaning in a million years,  _ he thought blearily.

She watched for a moment as he squirmed beneath her, eyeing the machine. His heart had spiked when she had made the incision. 

“Oh yes, Spiderman,” She said softly, a smile playing on her lips. “This will do very well indeed.”

It seemed to go on for hours. She played with the knife, played upon Peter’s skin until he couldn't think straight. He had never been in this much pain before. Everywhere hurt -- and he meant everywhere, from the tip of his head, all the way to his toes. It was an aching, deep throb across his whole body, one that seemed to pound right alongside the thump of his heart beat, which was still being announced to the room. He began slipping in and out of consciousness, his healing ability and spidey-sense doing everything within their collective power to keep him awake.

A few hours later, she was still pressing on. Peter’s breathing was harsh and his heartbeat erratic. She tapped the knife along his white t-shirt (well, it probably  _ used  _ to be white) poking him almost playfully. “Where shall I...” She cut off, and buried the knife up to the hilt in his stomach. Try as he might, Peter couldn't stop the scream that erupted from his lips, somewhere deep in his core. The knife was like fire, burning around his organs. He could feel every serrated edge touching him, the pain nigh unbearable until -- she pulled it out, which managed to hurt almost as much as when she pushed it in. 

Peter’s head pounded, and he wished that he could shut off his spidey-sense, because it kept warning him,  minute after minute that danger was here, danger was in this room.  _ I know there is danger in this room, I can see it right in front of me, _ he thought, staring at the woman. She had blood on her lab coat, but seemed unbothered by it. She was professional, in every way but literally.

She stabbed him again, this time watching the screen the screen carefully. Peter screamed again, a hoarse sound that reverberated in the back of his throat. His vision swam in front of his face, and he thought he was about to lose unconsciousness when he suddenly leaned his head over the side of the chair and vomited on the ground, his agonized stomach heaving. 

“Can’t have that now, can we?” She asked rhetorically, toeing the mess on the ground with a black boot. “I’ll get someone in here to clean that up. We’re almost done for the time being, anyway.” 

She set down the smaller, sturdier knife she had been using and instead picked up a needle. Peter rolled his head back, looking up at the ceiling for reprieve. 

“I want to examine your blood while you’re resting,” She said, testing the syringe. 

“Let me know if you find anything worrying,” Peter said in a raspy voice. “I’ll be seeing a doctor after this anyway.”

She didn’t respond, but just positioned the needle above his left inner elbow, the one that was still sporting a small scar. 

“I’d tell you it’s just a small prick, but I think we’ve passed the point in our relationship where we have to  _ lie  _ to make each other feel better.” She said, glancing up at Peter’s expression, his face shining with a sheen of sweat and his chest rising rapidly. 

She pressed down, inserting the large metal syringe into his skin. Peter groaned, arching his back slightly, squeezing his hands into fists. He could feel every inch of the needle as it pushed it’s way into his skin. He watched, caught with morbid fascination as his blood, red and thick, traveled up the clear tube and away to a container behind the table. 

“Saving it for later?” Peter asked even as the room swum before him. “Don’t tell me vampires are real, now. After today--” He coughed, and spat out some blood, trying desperately to maintain his composure. “After today, I don’t think I could take any more surprises.”

“I’m not barbaric, Spider-Man,” She said confidently, removing the needle and wiping it off on her coat. Peter’s eyes widened in disbelief. 

“We won’t kill you, simply push you, biologically. You have nothing to be afraid of.” There was a comforting look that didn’t seem to reach the eyes.

As if on cue, Oscar came back in, looking as cool and collected as ever. Peter, shaking, envied him. 

“You’ve lost enough blood to be weakened, I should think.” The woman said, fiddling with the bag of blood she had collected. “So, I’m giving you some ‘prescribed rest,’ straight from your own personal doctor.”

“Go to hell,” Peter ground out from the chair. Oscar was slowly removing the straps, but Peter was having a difficult time lifting himself from the chair. His whole body ached as if it had been run over by an eighteen wheeler. Twice. His stab wounds were still oozing blood like it was their job, and he was so dizzy that the cell’s matching gray walls, floor and ceiling seemed to blend together into one big monochrome haze.

He felt Oscar slip an arm underneath his shoulders, and then the whole room tilted forward. His legs slipped off the chair, and he was walking forward. Well, walking might have been a generous way to put it, but his feet dragged behind him on the ground slowly, occasionally supporting some of his weight, so Peter counted it as a win. 

“I’ll see you again tomorrow, Peter,” The woman said with a look that, in another universe where she hadn’t just spent the better part of the day carving into him, could have been kind. “Rest up, now.” 

Peter focused all his remaining energy on staying upright as he left the room, never so glad to hear a door click shut behind as he was in that moment. 

“You’re quiet,” Peter told Oscar, his words slurred.

“You’re rather screamy,” Oscar responded, just a hint of an accent in his voice. “I don’t like screamy people.”

“Rude,” Peter said. Despite his best efforts, his voice cracked, and he trailed off. Thankfully, Oscar didn’t seem to notice, and kept dragging him down the hallway.

“You’re here,” Oscar said indelicately after another thirty seconds had passed. He punched in a code outside of Peter and Stark’s cell. “Behave until we return for you tomorrow.”

Peter raised his arm in a sorry attempt for a parody of a salute, but only managed to make it halfway.  _ Ay-yay, cap’n,  _ he said but he wasn’t entirely sure if anyone else but him could hear it. 

The door swung open, and Oscar walked Peter a foot inside before leaving him there, closing the door behind him. 

***

It had been five hours -- five  _ hours _ \-- since Peter had left with their captor. For once in his thirty-one years, Tony wished he could shut off that billion dollar brain of his, which was going wild with all the possibilities of where Peter was, and what they were doing. The silence that surrounded him seemed heavy enough to suffocate, and the cell walls kept inching closer whenever he wasn’t looking. A little part of Tony wished  _ he _ had been taken away, because at least then he wouldn’t be staring at these same four walls for hours, and hours, and hours.

“Dammit!” He shouted suddenly, stopping his pacing long enough to smack the walls with enough force to leave his own hand red.  Just then, the door clicked. Tony’s head swiveled to the sound, zooming in on the first sound that wasn’t made by Tony himself all day. The heavy door opened, revealing a man Tony had never seen before, and Peter. Peter seemed to be balancing very carefully on his feet, a small almost invisible sway in his stance. The most striking thing about his appearance however, was that Peter’s form was covered in blood, some dried and cracking, some sticky, and some still slick against his body. 

“What?” Tony said, turning to face them. “What did you do?” He asked, anger creeping into his voice, directing himself at the stranger. He said nothing, just closed the door behind him and locked it again.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Peter crumpled, falling forwards, arms outstretched. Tony, lurched forward in surprise, grabbing him, and carefully led him to the ground.

“Peter?” He asked slowly, looking worriedly up and down his small form.

“Sorry,” He ground out, scrunching his eyes shut. “It’s fine--” He groaned, and shifted over to his side. “It’s fine, mostly.” He opened his eyes after another tense moment, his gaze locked with Tony. His hair, though sweaty, hung loose around the top of his head, curls falling into his eyes.

“What happened?” He asked, after collecting his thoughts. (Which he usually didn’t have to do). There was no answer for a while, only the labored breathing of the young man next to him. “Peter,” he tried again, kneeling next to him. “What did they do?”

“Healing factor,” Peter grunted.

“What?” He leaned closer. “You have a healing factor?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Uh-” he coughed, a little red leaking from the corner of his mouth, “ _ they _ have a healing factor, and they need a test subject.” Peter gestured to himself with bloodied arms.  “They injected me after they-” He paused, and his face went a little pale. “Afterward.” 

He shrugged, a movement to Tony that looked like it hurt. “At least it’ll heal, right?” The words sounded like they were meant to be lighthearted, but they were so quiet that Tony could hardly hear them. 

“I don’t understand, though,” He said in a low voice. “I guess they didn’t plan on me, but I’m here now, so why not let you go?” Tony said, straightening to pace the room. Peter watched jealousy from the floor. “Just do the experiments on me.”

“You’re … old?” Peter said, immediately wincing in regret _. _

“I’m not that much older than you,” Tony said hotly, glancing down at the hurt young man, biting back pity.

“I’m twenty-two,” Peter said, slowly pulling himself into a sitting position with a grimace. “You’re not.”

“I resent that,” Tony said, resuming his pacing haughtily.

“Well,” He smiled, splitting his lip, “Be glad you aren’t twenty-two.”

Tony didn’t answer, unable to look the young man in the eyes. A few minutes passed, and all he could hear was Peter’s ragged breathing. He ignored it for as long as he could. The sound made Tony’s chest constrict in a way he didn’t like.

“Did I tell you I found the bathroom?” He said suddenly, trying to make conversation. “It’s right in there, there’s a small sliding door. Surprise, it’s the same color as the wall.”

Peter nodded slowly, a little more color in his face. “Glad you were busy,” He said.

Tony didn’t say anything. He hadn’t been busy, and it sounded like Peter had been too busy. 

“What exactly did she do to do?” He asked after a moment, ceasing his pacing to sit on the floor next to Peter.

“Not much. Little pinch, little poke,” Peter laughed, but it sounded broken. Tony’s chest tightened again. He wasn’t sure if it was pity, or sympathy, or something else.

“Can I?” Tony gestured to where Peter was holding his stomach. 

“Knock yourself out,” He said, moving his hands away. Tony saw the the blood, he saw the broken t-shirt, he saw the wounds. 

“She stabbed you?”

“Twice, actually.” Tony cringed as Peter continued, “Nothing but the best for her prisoners.”

“A lot of it has already healed,” Peter said softly, looking down his arms, which were already covered with small white scars that would be gone by morning.

“I’m -- I’m sorry,” Tony said hesitantly. Peter just shut his eyes and nodded in recognition. 

Tony waited, but Peter’s eyes stayed shut. He was leaning against Tony, getting some blood on the older man’s clothes, but somehow, Tony couldn't find it within himself to mind. 

Peter’s eyelashes were long, and they curled against the pale thin cheekbones of his face. While he was sleeping he looked graceful, every curve in his body perfectly shaped. The only ungraceful thing about the young man next to him was the way his chest rose erratically, and the harsh sound of his irregular breathing. Tony fell asleep like that, several hours later, listening to Peter breath. 


	4. Chapter Four

When Peter awoke, his face was buried into someone’s shoulder. He pulled back slowly, his head pounding. 

“Morning, handsome,” A voice said, watching Peter blink groggily.

Peter rubbed his eyes slowly, looking thoroughly confused. “You’re...Tony Stark?” He said slowly, taking stock of the man he had just woken up next to.

“Last I checked,” Tony responded. It looked like he had been awake for a while. “How are you feeling?”

Suddenly, Peter remembered. The woman, the knife,  _ everything _ . “Uh-” he looked around the room. “Fine, I think.” His body ached slightly, but nothing compared to yesterday.

“Incredible,” Tony breathed, his hand reaching subconsciously for Peter’s now healed stomach. 

“Isn’t it?” Peter said bitterly, dragging himself to his feet. 

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Stark spoke up again, and handed Peter a large bread roll. It was covered in light brown sauce. Peter noticed a pitcher of water in the corner, more than half full. “The tap water is okay to drink too, I think,” He added, gesturing to the small bathroom. 

Peter took it wordlessly, suddenly remembering that his last meal had been a hot dog roll, more than twenty-four hours ago. 

“Well, eat up. You need energy. Whatever their serum is doing to you must take the wind out of you,” Tony said, leaning back against the wall. “And if you won’t, I will.”

Peter took a bite out of the roll, the thick savory taste filling his mouth. He was so hungry. Why hadn’t he noticed how hungry he was? He took another bite quickly. He couldn't get enough.

“This is really good,” He said through the bread, his speech muffled.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying our five star stay,” Tony said wryly. 

“Hey, it’s free food,” Peter said, only half joking. Yesterday felt so far away now that his stomach was full and his wounds had healed. 

“If we ever get out of here, you won’t have to worry about paying for food ever again,” Tony said offhandedly, smiling at Peter as he scarfed down the rest of the roll. His stomach grumbled, wishing for more. 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Peter warned him, finishing the roll with a lick of his fingers. Tony pursed his lips. 

“What, you’re going to judge me for not being polite? Here? Now?” Peter smiled widely, and finished licking his fingers, not letting any sauce go to waste. 

Tony raised his hands in defeat. 

“How long have you been up?” Peter asked, settling into a sitting position near the pitcher of water. 

“A few hours,” He responded, taking a seat next to him. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up.”

Peter’s face turned red. 

“Sorry,” He mumbled. 

“It’s fine. I figure we’re both going to get pretty lonely in here,” Tony said off-handedly, a smirk dancing on his face.

Peter didn’t know how to respond. He knew Tony’s . . . varied sexual history, and any sentence like that probably meant nothing. Or, it meant exactly what it sounded like, which made Peter feel even more uncomfortable. 

“Lighten up, kid,” Tony said, as the silence stretched on. “Like I said, you and I are each other’s only company for the foreseeable future.” He shrugged, turning to Peter. “Not that I  _ don’t  _ wish you were a leggy blonde, but you seem friendly enough.”

“High praise,” Peter said with a snort. 

“Look,” Tony said, rolling his eyes at Peter again. “Just, consider us on a first name basis, alright?”

“As soon as I spent a night bleeding out onto you, I considered you Tony,” Peter said, smiling wryly. Tony bit the inside of his cheek.

“You are one weird civilian,” He said again.

“The praise just keeps on coming, doesn’t it?”

“I rest my case,” Tony continued, giving Peter a pointed look, which Peter ignored.

In silence, they enjoyed each other’s company, resting against the wall. Tony got up intermediately, pacing the room for a few minutes before sitting down next to Peter again to share a small thought, occasionally making him laugh. 

Suddenly, they both froze as they heard the lock click again. Peter’s heart dropped to his stomach, and he couldn't stop the hitch in his breath. Tony glanced toward him, then to the door, his face set.

The woman was there, again, her poisoned smile set on her face. 

“Gentlemen,” She greeted them, spreading her arms. “Good morning, I trust?” 

“I missed the continental breakfast,” Peter said without missing a beat, but his body language spoke another story. He wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t even standing. He sat, back to the wall, staring straight ahead.

“I’ll have to talk to my staff,” she said playfully. Tony’s stony expression didn’t budge.

“So,” she continued, diplomatic as ever “My first appointment this morning is with Mr. Stark, here. If you would,” She gestured to the door. 

“If you think for one moment I’m walking out that door with you . . .” He said in a low voice.

“I do, in fact. Or, I can take Peter first, and come back for you afterward,” She said, her voice equally low. The smile was still plastered on her face, hanging creepily beneath unfeeling eyes. 

Peter’s breathing choked for a moment from his sat position against the door. Tony walked to the door wordlessly, not looking Peter or the woman in the eyes. “Let’s go, then.” His words were impatient but his face was stoic. 

“See you later,” He said to Peter, glancing back at his roommate. 

“In a while, crocodile.”

***

“I’m sure you saw our handiwork concerning our young patient, yesterday, no?” The woman led Tony down the corridor.

“Handiwork? You’re crazy,” Tony scoffed, running his hand through his curls, wishing he could have a nice wash. Maybe even a spa day. “You’re gonna kill him.”

“Eventually, almost certainly,” She smiled down at Tony from her several inch heels. 

Tony felt goosebumps appear along his arms. 

“Regardless, you can be helpful in your own way,” She paused next to a door, and gestured for someone to come forward. Slowly, the man who had left a bleeding Peter in their doorway walked up, his dark hair slicked back. 

“This is Oscar, and for all intents and purposes, he is your lab assistant,” She clapped her hands, a bright look in her eyes. “Come,” She gestured to the door next to them. With a small click, it swung open.

“I’ve collected some of Peter’s blood in order to create a healing serum,” She said pointing to a large glass container which held something deep and red. Tony felt his stomach heave once as he stared at it. “Of course,” she continued, walking around the small lab, “This is just a small sample, set aside for you. The rest is for me to . . . play with.” 

“Oh, a scientist, are you?” Tony said acidically, eyes still glued to the sample. 

“Doctor actually.” There was a hint of pride in her voice that didn’t go unnoticed. 

“Doctor?” At that, he ripped his gaze away. “What the fuck happened to the Hippocratic Oath then,  _ Doctor? _ ” He spat at her feet, rage burning beneath his eyes. 

“Not that kind of doctor,” She said, stalking to the front of the room, crazed happy look vanished from her gaze. “And I recommend you watch your tone with me, Mr. Stark.”

“No promises. Being cooped up for over a day can make anyone a little crazy,” Tony said, folding his arms. The woman turned away from him, staring at the whiteboard. 

“All I require of you is your mind, Mr. Stark,” She said, breathing deeply out of her nose. “I did not exactly plan on you being here, but now that you are, it’d be nothing less than stupid to ignore your great talent.”

“So what would you have me and my talent do?” Tony said with dread, glancing at Peter’s blood again.

“Create a healing serum from Peter’s blood,” She said, shrugging as if it were obvious. 

“Don’t you already have one?” Tony said, running his hands through the shelves, looking for supplies. 

“Is that what Peter told you?” She asked, furrowing her brows.

“Yeah. After you  _ torture _  him, you inject him to heal him up.” Tony wasn’t successful in keeping his voice steady and the anger seeped through. 

The woman laughed out loud. “Yes, that  _ is _ what we do, isn’t it?” She laughed again.

Tony swiveled his gaze to her, incredulity written across his face. “What’s so funny, Doc?”

“Nothing, Mr. Stark. Nothing at all,” She flashed him a sickly smile. 

“I’ll leave you to it then,” She said, walking back toward the door. “Oscar will be right outside if you need anything.”

“Does Oscar have any experience?” Tony asked, the question slipping out as if it were a normal job, in a normal lab. 

“Experience?” She cocked her head, in foux thought for a moment. “No. But you’ll have to make due. Besides, you love working alone.” With that, she shut the door behind herself, and Tony was alone once more. 

***

_ Is this how it had been for Tony yesterday? _ Peter wondered from his perch several feet off the ground.  _ Alone, scared, and more than anything, bored?  _ Somehow, he felt relaxed up here. More relaxed than he had yet in this place, anyway. It reminded him that he was still Spider-Man, he was still himself. 

He had tried several positions in the hour or two he had been left alone so far. If he had just had his web shooters, he’d already be swinging back and forth in a hammock strung from the ceiling. But then again, Tony would definitely notice that.

Suddenly, the door unlocked and opened with a bang. 

“Peter?” The woman crossed her arms. “Come down from there, we have work to do.”

“What did you do with Tony?” He asked immediately, dropping down from his crouch against the wall. 

“He’s fine. We’re putting his smart mind to use.” She waved her hand. “Now, come on.”

Peter didn’t move. 

“Do I have to motivate you, Mr. Parker?” She used his real name like a bullet, piercing his ears. “Mr. Stark does not yet know your true identity. If you’d like to keep it that way, then move. Along.” 

Peter was stock-still for one more moment, staring at her -- staring  _ through _ her -- but then, he pulled his feet in front of him, and followed her out the door, one step after another. His Spidey-sense screamed for him to do anything than this, to go anywhere else other than here. His strength itched right underneath his skin, begging to be released in the form of punching the woman in front of him as hard as he possibly could. But, instead, he walked along, behind her, his steps meek and small. 

The room was just as he remembered it from yesterday, but there was a strong smell of antiseptic chemicals coating the pseudo-lab, and there wasn’t a trace left of the blood he had spilt not twenty-four hours earlier. 

Peter lingered in the doorway as the woman strode in, pulling her hair into a ponytail that fell down her back. 

“Peter, we’ve been over this. Come in, make yourself comfortable.” She gave him a bemused look, and returned to the clipboards in front of her, a small smile on her face. 

Peter, slowly and with trepidation approached the chair again, waiting next to it.  _ I should probably appreciate my ability to stand without help while I still can, _ he thought to himself. 

“When you get up, can you lie on your side for me?” The woman asked distractedly, glancing up from her paperwork. 

He climbed up, lying on his left side. His back felt exposed, and he couldn't stop the shaking in his fingers, so he clenched them into fists as tight as he could, and focused on breathing. That was one thing he could control -- for now, anyway. 

“Today, we should have a fairly short day,” She said, walking over to the chair. She had glasses pushed up on the top of her head, and was looking down at Peter with a calculating eye. In her right hand, weighing down her whole right side, hung a large mallet, the handle thick and wooden. 

“What’s that for?” Peter asked, unable to take his eyes off it. 

“Your femur,” She said, running her hand up his upper leg, drawing goosebumps. Peter shivered, and fought against every urge in his body to pull his leg away. 

“I’m going to tie you down, and then we can get started,” She said, placing the hammer on the chair next to Peter’s chest. 

Awkwardly, she pulled the strap over Peter’s ankles, and tied them down as best as she could in his position on his side. She tied down both wrists on the same arm, forcing his back to be hunched. 

“And so we begin,” She said, for no one’s benefit other than her own. 

“Do we have to?” Peter asked, his voice muffled. She ignored him. 

She picked the hammer up, and notched it above her shoulder. Counting silently, her lips moving, she drew it up higher until it was hovering above her head. Peter couldn't control his fear, he couldn't control his Spidey-Sense, he couldn't control  _ anything. _ His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

His whole body was shaking, and his eyes were tightly closed, as though if he couldn't see the situation, the situation would disappear. 

After a moment that felt like an eternity, the mallet fell. 

Peter wasn’t sure what was louder -- his scream, or the crack of his femur that seemed to reverberate around the room. If Tony was still in his cell, he surely would have heard that . . . right? He couldn't stop the tears forming in the corner of his eyes or the feeling coming from his right leg, a feeling worse than yesterday. 

It didn’t dissipate, it didn’t reach a steady throb. He could feel the bones underneath his skin move against each other with every stolen breath, and out of the corner of his teary eye, could see the skin, already black and blue. 

“I’ll release you to your cell, Mr. Parker. I want to see how long it takes to heal on it’s own. Your healing ability might even mend the bone correctly.”

Peter couldn't say anything, even if he wanted to. His breaths were gasps, his head was rushing, and he couldn't seem to focus on anything longer than a split-second. Somewhere, beneath all the terror and pain and despair, he wished Tony was there, he wished he could fall asleep on his shoulder again, and wake up with a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, but my family reunion was without wifi or cell service this year! We went to a tiny State Park in rural PA. In other news, the next chapter should be up within three days or so, and thanks to everyone who's been commenting and leaving kudos! It honestly means so so much. With that in mind, I am still looking for a beta reader- for anyone interested, just leave a comment or get in touch with me directly!  
> Enjoy!


	5. Chapter Five

The cell was empty when Peter returned, but he barely noticed. The pain emanating from his leg was all - consuming, all-encompassing. He wouldn’t have even noticed if the cell had been on fire. 

As soon as the woman released her grip on him, he collapsed to the floor, helpless and completely at a loss to stand. He pounded his fist on the cement floor underneath him, something in him trying to right himself. It was to no avail.

“I’ll be back tomorrow to take X- Rays,” She said, closing the door slowly behind her. Peter watched her go, his vision swimming. 

Soon, he was alone. His thoughts ran together, and nothing seemed real expect the pain. But, almost worse than the pain was the knowledge that his leg would have to be rebroken and set. Even in this haze, Peter’s mind was connecting the dots and anticipating the future, even if his person was bordering on unconscious. He couldn't muster up the strength to make his way to the wall or to the bathroom, so, at long last, his eyelids slipped shut, and his eyes rolled back in the head. 

***

Peter awoke with a dry scratchy feeling in his throat, and a deep throbbing coming from his lower half, but his mind felt clear. Clearer than it had in hours. He dragged himself into a sitting position. Blood rushed to his head, and for a moment, he only saw black. 

He blinked rapidly, looking around. Slowly, his vision and balance righted themselves, and he noticed with a small pang that his cell was still empty. He hoped that, wherever Tony was, he was okay. He didn’t have a healing factor, he’d be fine, right? No reason to target the great Tony Stark. He hoped that would be true. Peter bit his bottom lip, and wrapped his hands around his thigh, slowly pulling it closer to him, doing his best to ignore the pain. He couldn't stop the whimpers that escaped his lips. 

He couldn't decide if he wished Tony was there or if he was glad for the privacy. On one hand, it’d be nice ( _ more than nice, _ he thought fleetingly) to see a friendly face, but on another, he wasn’t presenting his best self right now. 

He let his head roll back on his shoulders until his gaze was trained on the ceiling above him, enjoying the stretch in his muscles. He breathed out heavily through his mouth, and tried (unsuccessfully) to think of anything else other than his now broken femur, but the only thing coming to his mind was the smile of his cellmate, and the deceptively sweet eyes that came with it. 

***

“Peter?” A shaky voice broke his concentration as Peter’s awareness slowly came back into focus.

“Aunt May?” He asked, looking around.

“No-no, it’s Tony,” The voice bit back something else.

“Oh right,” He said slowly, Tony’s face coming into focus, along with everything else. “What’s up?”

“What’s  _ up _ ?” Tony asked, taking Peter’s hand. Peter looked down at their hands, confusion hitting the wall in his brain when everything seemed to have stopped working. 

“Nothing is  _ up, _ what did they do?” Tony ran his gaze up and down his cellmate, still gripping his hand, like it proved Peter was alright, it proved that he was breathing. 

Something acidic and hot rose in Peter’s throat, and he pushed it back down with a struggle before saying, “She broke my femur.” 

Tony closed his eyes against the words. “Fuck.”

“That about sums it up,” Peter agreed brokenly.

“They didn’t set it?” Tony asked after another pause.

“Why bother? It’ll heal in fourteen hours, and they’ll just break it again and  _ then _ set it.” Peter’s voice was harsh, but there was the underlying sound of a shivering whimper with every word. For a moment, the only thing either of them could hear in their cell was their own breathing, Tony’s quick and hurried, Peter’s ragged. 

“We can set it,” Tony said suddenly. “I’ve never met a problem I couldn't solve, and I’m not about to let that bitch set me back.”

Peter looked down at his leg, black and blue and swollen, and then back up at the older man kneeling above him. 

“What?” 

“We can set it. We’re going to set it,” Tony’s voice was determined now, and he began to search the room for materials to work with. 

“How?” Peter asked, but he didn’t stop the light of hope that flashed in his eyes. 

“Here,” Tony procured a toilet plunger from their tiny cell bathroom. “A cast.”

“The height of science, you truly are a visionary,” Peter said, smiling thinly.

“For someone with a broken leg, you’re very catty. I could just leave you to suffer,” Tony said, without looking at Peter. 

For some unspoken reason, Peter couldn't imagine Tony standing by while he was in pain.

“Now,” Tony started, a weird look in his eyes, “I usually would take you to dinner or something first, but we’re a little strapped for cash in here.” And, without warning, he pulled off his shirt.

Peter didn’t say anything at first, but his mouth fell open, and for a moment - a glorious, wonderful moment - he forgot about the pain in his leg. 

“I need something to tie the splinter with,” Tony explained after Peter had been gaping for a suitably awkward amount of time.

“Right.” Peter found his voice again. “Of course.”

“Besides,” Tony continued, beginning to tear his shirt into strips, “You’ve been shirtless since yesterday, so I thought it was only fair.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t exactly choose my outfit. Although I suppose it is ‘prison chic’,” Peter said, twirling his fingers in a poor imitation of a model.

“You look good in boxers,” Tony said with a smirk. 

Peter felt his face turn red, and he ignored the compliment. Tony swept past his blush, and got back to business.

“Now, I wouldn’t lie to you, would I?” Tony said, getting to his knees next to Peter, wielding the toilet plunger.

“You tell me,” Peter said apprehensively, eyes glued to the plunger.

“I wouldn’t. So, believe me when I say, this isn’t going to hurt at all,” There was an obvious smirk in Tony’s voice, and he looked at Peter with an expression that said  _ ‘Well, what can you do?’ _

“Is this where you pretend to count to five, but actually set my bone on three?” Peter asked, dread beginning to creep up in him, but it was significantly less dread than he had felt when the woman had raised the hammer. The memory flashed through him -- (falling, crack,  _ pain) - _ \- and he shut his eyes against it as if it would will the memory to go black. 

“Again, would I lie to you?” Tony said with a shake of his head.

Peter just took a deep breath and focused his eyes on the ceiling. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” he told Tony, wishing he could have stopping the shaking in his voice.

Tony yanked the rubber end of the plunger off and threw it behind him. He made sure the strips of his shirt were at the ready as soon as he needed them, and then pulled Peter’s leg slightly closer to him carefully, wincing in sympathy with Peter’s tiny moan. 

“You do know what you’re doing, right?” Peter asked, breathing heavily, his hands in fists on the floor.

“I have three PhDs,” Tony said, doing one more once-over on his supplies.

“That does not answer my question,” Peter said flatly, his voice still shaking slightly.

“No time to argue about it,” He said. “I am the most qualified person in this room.” He glanced up and looked Peter in the eyes. “On that note, get ready.”

Peter gave a quick  nod and proceeded to stare straight ahead. This was gonna hurt like a  _ mother. _

Tony placed the rod against Peter’s upper leg, immobilizing almost his entire leg, from the hip to the knee. Peter let out a gasp of pain when the plunger came into contact with his dark bruises, clenching his jaw when he realized that the worst was yet to come.

“Take a deep breath kid,” Tony said, furrowing his brows in concentration.

With that, he pushed heavily on Peter’s femur, forcing the fragments to reconnect, at least to the best of his abilities. 

Peter screamed, unable to hold back. He reached out and gripped Tony’s shoulder instinctually, rasping in breathes. 

Tony tied the plunger to his leg as tightly and as quickly as he could, glancing up at Peter’s pained face every few seconds just to check on him. Peter didn’t move his hand from his shoulder, instead squeezing his hand in time with the tightening of the strips.

“All done,” Tony said finally.

Peter took a few more deep breathes, steadying himself. 

“Thank you,” Peter said, his voice grating.

“Anytime,” Tony said casually, rolling down from his kneeling position to sit against the wall.

“Sorry,” Peter said suddenly, awkwardly removing his hand from Tony’s bare shoulder.

“No need to say sorry. I get it.” He winked at Peter, and laughed.

His laugh was infectious to Peter, who cracked a grin, which, despite wavering through the pain, grew into a small bark of laughter as Tony kept looking at him in a certain way. Afterward, Tony looked almost triumphant, as though he was proud of the laughter.

“So,” Peter said, doing anything to ignore the pain. “What did you do today, other than this?” He gestured to the misshapen mess that was his leg and the plunger rod which was tied to him with long black cotton strips.

“Well, I spent the whole day staring at your blood,” Tony said candidly.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m supposed to ‘fashion a new healing serum out of the healing properties of your blood,’ or something.” Tony waved his hand. “They didn’t really explain it very well.”

“Did you . . .” Peter swallowed heavily, avoiding the other man’s gaze. “Did you examine it?”

“No. Fuck ‘em.” Tony shrugged as though he had no cares in the world.  _ Maybe he didn’t, _ Peter thought.

“Fuck ‘em?” Peter repeated, crossing his arms. He was ready to listen to Tony rant. Or talk. Or do just about anything even minorly distracting.

“Let them do their own damn work if they’re such good scientists,” he said, blowing out an annoyed sigh. “Besides,” he twisted and looked at Peter head-on, “I’ve got my hands full with you, anyway.”

“Oh, no,” Peter said before he could stop himself.

“Oh,  _ yes _ you mean,” Tony responded, his cocky grin back in place beneath his perfect nose and shock of black hair. His lips were pulled back, somehow still smooth and not chapped at all despite only having one meal in the past thirty-six hours. There were dimples in the corners of his cheeks, and small wrinkles were forming in the corners of his eyes, like he laughed a lot. Peter blinked rapidly. He had been staring. Again. Tony acted like he hadn’t even noticed, and the grin didn’t move at all.

Peter wasn’t sure if he was being given a free pass (which, again, he deserved), or if Tony was just really that oblivious. Something, a glint in his eye, a flick of his tongue, made Peter believe he probably wasn’t oblivious. He didn’t think Tony was oblivious to just about anything. 

_ Other than the fact that I’m Spider-Man. _ The thought lingered in the back of his head for a moment; it wouldn’t leave. He missed it -  _ God,  _ he missed it. In here, there was no wind, there was no flying, there was no falling. There was just gray, cement, and pain.  _ But there was Tony though,  _ his brain seemed to say. 

He shook his head quickly, and glanced at Tony, as if worried he would be listening in on his thoughts. But he was just sitting peacefully against the wall. His hands were crossing over his lap, and his head was tilted back as he seemed to rest, his eyes closed delicately. In that moment, Peter wouldn’t have been surprised if Tony  _ was _ listening in on his thoughts. 

“What are you thinking about?” Peter was surprised to hear the words, even though they were coming out of his own mouth.

Tony opened one eye and surveyed him, raising the same eyebrow.

“Fine wine,” He said, nonplussed.

“Right,” Peter said, nodding slowly and looking over the wall as Tony closed his eyes again. He bit his lip.  _ Stupid question! _ Peter glanced back at him, making sure his eyes were closed, and then settled his gaze on the dozing figure. He was shirtless - just like Peter - but he didn’t seem uncomfortable or taken aback by it. If anything, he seemed to be more at ease. There was a slight rise in his chest as he breathed, but it was shallow, letting on to the fact that he wasn’t really sleeping. 

“What are  _ you _ thinking about?” 

If Peter hadn’t watched Tony’s lips move, he wouldn’t have believed that he had spoken at all. His eyes were still closed, but there was a smile in his voice, and a quirk upwards in his mouth.

_ You, _ Peter almost said, but he bit his tongue just before he spoke. “Home,” he said after a beat, his voice sounding more sincere than he meant it to.

“What is home, then, to you?” Tony asked, opening his eyes and propping himself up onto an elbow.

“Queens,” Peter said automatically. 

“I’m more of a Malibu man myself,” Tony said almost wistfully, staring at something Peter couldn't see.

“Like margaritas on the beach?” he asked, curling his lips into his own smirk.

“And then some,” Tony said, giving a Peter a look that said,  _ And then a lot more ‘some’. _

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when we get out?” Tony asked suddenly. 

“ _ If _ we get out, you mean,” Peter said darkly.

“Stick with me, and we’ll get out,” he assured him, but Peter remained unconvinced.

“Where exactly am I going to go with this leg?” he asked ruefully, poking at it with a wince as he spoke.

“Well, it’ll heal in a day, thanks to Dr. Evil Miracles, right?” Tony said matter of factly. 

“Sure,” said Peter, eyeing his leg distrustfully, like it had gone and decided to get broken.

“So, that gives us a day to figure out how to get out of here, right?” Tony was speaking to Peter like he was a puppy, but for once in his life, Peter didn’t mind it. He let himself nod along to Tony’s grand ideas of escape (which included Iron Man Mark 36 and massive machine guns, as well as a particularly creative plan that involved the Beatles, daggers, and a massive trench coat). Tony’s voice was excited and cocky, and Peter hung onto it, laughing when he should laugh, looking disapproving when he should look disapproving, and making suggestions as to when, who, what and where they should go and do when (if) they escaped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! Thanks for reading the next chapter in this story, I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks a million to my beta reader for making sure it was readable! I'm currently on vacation, but don't worry, there will still be (almost) weekly updates! Would you rather I post more often but shorter chapters? Like always, let me know how you feel about the chapter below, and be excited for some new faces next chapter!


	6. Chapter Six

Bruce walked to the elevator at the bottom of Avenger’s Tower slowly, hands deep in his pockets. The lobby was bustling with people, but the security guard at the entrance had barely looked at his ID. Everyone knew Bruce. A few months ago, he had considered the apartment home. 

Back then, almost all the Avengers had lived there. Or at least, they had had a very permanent and personal guest room. But, after Steve went off to find Bucky, and Natasha and Clint started taking more missions, tensions rose. Slowly but surely, everyone moved out or was too busy to come by regularly. Bruce was the only common visitor left, since he was working with Tony on nearly every one of his projects in the lab. To him, it was more of an excuse to check in 0n Tony, but he certainly didn’t mind using the billion dollar equipment for free every time he visited his old apartment. It was one of the perks of being the Hulk. One of the few. 

He stepped into the elevator, pressing the button that shut the doors before he did anything else. It was the Avengers Tower, and he was Bruce Banner. He didn’t want to be a captive audience for too long, and an elevator ride (even one with Tony’s high-speed capabilities) to the penthouse should be avoided. At least, that was his policy. Who knows what a citizen, even one that worked for Tony, would be asking him. All he knew was that it probably would be about the Other Guy, and not about his studies or passions or whatever. 

He shook his head. Passions? Man, he really did need a break. 

The elevator dinged pleasantly, and the doors opened smoothly. The back of his neck itched, but he ignored it. Being the Hulk gave him a weird feeling basically all of the time, so this was probably nothing to worry about. It just . . . he pondered for a moment, entering the penthouse.

It just felt quiet. 

_But_ , he rationalized to himself, _when Tony was your friend,_ _quiet usually meant in the lab._ And, therefore, the lab was usually very, very loud. Bruce passed the kitchen (kitchen was almost too common of a word. He was certain that the countertops alone cost more than his apartment’s yearly rent), stopping only to grab a pastry that had most likely been flown in from some European country for a ridiculous price. 

Bruce bit into it, deciding that it certainly  _ tasted  _ European. Not that he had been to Europe (or on a plane, for that matter–unless the Quinjet counted–since the Other Guy showed up).

By the time he had reached the lab, the pastry was long gone. He wiped his hands on his jeans idly, taking the stairs to lab two at a time. Despite the grandeur of the penthouse surrounding him, he was perfectly at ease. This was his old place, and currently, his best friend’s living space. A home away from home, as it was. 

“Tony?” He called, getting to the keypad at the bottom of the stairs. “Was that pastry from your kitchen from anywhere specific?” He punched in his code, checking his watch. “Cause I might just invest in some of my own.”

The door swung open automatically, but there was no answer. 

“Tony?” he called again, looking around the lab.

Nothing. 

Immediately, his anxiety rose. The itch on the back of his neck returned, and this time, he couldn't shake it off. Something was wrong. 

“JARVIS?” He called out, realizing he hadn’t heard from the snarky A.I at all yet that afternoon. He would explain it. JARVIS would say something like ‘Mr. Stark’s in the bathroom,’ or ‘Mr. Stark left in his suit,’ or ‘Mr. Stark is currently in Mumbai,’ or something along those lines. He waited with baited breath, waiting for the comforting and familiar voice of the program.

There was no response. His heart stopped for a moment, and then his phone was in his hand, already dialing the number to SHIELD. 

“Fury?” he asked as soon as the line clicked. “I think we have a problem.” He swallowed heavily, trying to keep himself together. “A big problem.”

 

***

“Fuck.”

Clint Barton dropped his head into his hands, wishing everything would just  _ go away. _

When he looked up again, the briefing room was still there. Fury was still standing at the front, a stern expression on his face. Natasha’s hand was on his shoulder comfortingly. 

“Clint? You with us?” Bruce asked from across the table, his left hand tapping nervously on the dark brown finished table. 

“Unfortunately,” he said after a beat. 

“As I said, Tony Stark is missing. We don’t know for how long. At least one week.”

“How did he disappear without us noticing?” Steve spoke up, arms folded in concentration. 

“We think he was in the suit when it happened.” Fury shrugged. “We can’t find the suit either, so the only conclusion we can come to is that he was kidnapped with it.”

“The real question is whether the kidnappers were after the suit or after Tony,” Natasha said, leaning back in her chair. Her red hair hung loose just above her shoulders. 

“JARVIS?” asked Bruce, who was still tapping.

“Unresponsive. Our agents are working on getting him back,” Fury answered. “Our objective right now is to find Stark. Romanoff, I want you compiling lists of people who have the capability and motive to kidnap one of the most powerful people in the country.”

“It’ll be a long list,” Natasha said, but she nodded her head in agreement.

“Bruce, help our analysts if you can, but stay calm,” Fury shot him a calculating look. He dipped his head.

“What about us?” Steve asked, agitated, gesturing to himself and Barton.

“Sit tight. We’ll need you both leading the team when we find him.” 

“Fuck,” repeated Barton. 

Natasha and Steve exchanged a look, and Bruce’s fidgeting showed no sign of stopping. 

***

“That Spider-Kid stop by recently?” Rami asked, smiling distractedly at a passing customer. The street was busy this afternoon, and they had sold over two hundred hot-dogs just this morning.

“Not in the past week,” The stand owner responded, his own smile wavering. “It’s not like him. He would eat this whole cart if I let him, but I haven’t seen him in more than week.” He shook his head, putting his tongs down next to the vat of oil. “I hope the kid’s alright. He takes himself too seriously.”

“How would you know?” He laughed. “He just stops here for hot-dogs. I bet you give ‘em to him for cheap, too.” 

“He stopped a mugging here a few years ago,” The owner sighed. “Now, I’d give him all these hot-dogs for free just to make sure the little guy’s alright. I don’t think he’s got a lot of people looking out for him.”

“He wouldn’t have to eat  _ your _ hot-dogs if he did.”

The owner shot him a look.

***

_ Smack. Smack. Smack. _

“Barton!” came Bruce’s voice after the little rubber ball hit the side of the wall for the umpteenth time. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be good at controlling your anger?” Clint snapped, catching his ball.

Bruce sighed deeply and looked at him. “I am. But it doesn’t mean I have to live with a child. This is not a gym. Or a school playground.”

“Why don’t you go help the analysts? At least  _ you _ have something to do right now,” Clint said.

“They kicked me out. Didn’t need me.” He decided not to mention the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness and anger as they sifted through countless hours of video footage, or when they tried to get JARVIS up and running again. It all seemed so pointless, but it was better than sitting here. Tony was out there–he  _ was,  _ he couldn't–wasn’t–dead. He just wasn’t. 

“Great. So we’re all useless,” Clint said, returning to his wall. He let his ball go, catching it again a moment later.

“Where’s Steve?” Bruce asked, trying to change the subject. Maybe the three of them could work on something useful. Contribute anything.

“Where else?” Clint gestured towards the East Wing, where the training room was. Bruce could see him in his mind’s eye, punching the same bag over and over until it fell off it’s chain. He knew Steve was feeling just as helpless as the rest of them. Selfishly, it made him feel a small bit better. If even Captain America was restless, then they had a right to be too.

“I wish we were all back at the tower right about now,” Bruce said, looking at the drab walls of SHIELD headquarters.

“I wish Tony was at the tower right now,” Clint said.

“We all do.” Bruce sat heavily next to Clint, leaning over the table, arms folded. “We all do.”

***

“Five-year reunion is coming up,” Nicole said, picking at her salad. 

“I know,” Mary responded, avoiding her gaze. 

“‘I know,’” She rolled her eyes. “What kind of response is that? How about : ‘yes, great, I’m going’?” She wiggled her eyebrows excitedly, spearing a particularly thin piece of lettuce.

“You’re still in contact with that skinny guy from senior year, right?” She continued, chewing loudly. “Patrick something-or-other.”

“Peter,” she corrected instantly, then deflated a bit. “I don't know. I mean, I texted him, but he never got back to me. His facebook hasn’t been updated in a year though, so I don’t know.” She sighed. “Whatever.”

“When did you text him?” Nicole asked, stabbing another small bite of lettuce. 

“About a week ago. He used to be really good about getting back to me, but ever since his Aunt died, it’s been weird.” She looked down at her food studying the contents of her plate. Her grilled chicken seemed to stare back at her. “It doesn’t matter. He does his own thing usually anyhow.” There was something behind her eyes, a memory, a thought that Nicole couldn't recognize. She brushed it off, deciding she had to distract her friend from whatever spell this nerd had her under. He hadn’t even taken her out in over three months anyway. Who cared!

“Yeah, we can get you a date with any guy from that school. Forget about Peter Patrick, or whatever.” She looked at her friend and winked. “We’re gonna get laid,” she smirked, laughing at Mary’s light blush.

“I guess that means we’re going?” she asked rhetorically.

“Get something cute, because yes, we’re going.” With that decided, Nicole officially gave up trying to eat her salad and pushed it away in front of her, setting her fork down with a small clang. 

***

“Sir?” Natasha knocked lightly on Fury’s door. “I have the list.”

“Bring it in,” he called from his desk, not looking up from the paperwork already laid in front of him. 

“It’s long,” she said, setting it down. 

“Stark is our first priority right now,” Fury said. “Long means thorough.” 

“I understand sir,” she said, walking back to his door. 

“Romanoff?” he called after a moment, as he skimmed through the first few names. “You do understand how dangerous it is to have a man like Tony Stark unaccounted for?”

“Of course I do,” she said, looking at him steadily. 

“His mind knows things not even the upper echelons of this government are aware of,” he continued, watching Natasha closely. “He cannot reveal any of that.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Natasha said, sensing what Fury was trying to get at, “Stark knows how important he is. It’s something he’s all too aware of. I also believe he is too prideful to let himself be the downfall of this country. Or SHIELD, for that matter.” 

“You truly believe a man like Stark has the willpower to remain silent after torture? What if I were to say we don’t find him until several weeks go by?” Fury asked, sounding like he already knew the answer.

“I think he knows what’s best,” Natasha said simply. “At the end of the day, I trust him to make the right decision. And in the meantime,” she shrugged, although there was something much darker in her eyes, “there’s nothing we can do but hope. We owe him that much.”

“Why, I do believe all that red in your ledger has been wiped clean,” Fury said, looking at his agent with an appraising gaze. “I never knew you to be so trusting of your coworkers.”

“Not my coworkers, sir.” At this, Natasha quirked a small, sad smile. “My team.”

***

“Crime rates have increased by almost fifty percent this week, and there have been a sixty percent increase in muggings in the Queens and Forest Hills area in just the past seven days,” a news reporter spieled, speaking steadily to her camera. The bar was busy, and only a few people could hear the TV anyway. She continued on:

“The sudden absence of the web-crawling vigilante known as ‘Spider-Man’ has been hailed as a victory for the police, but the facts may speak otherwise.” She touched a hand delicately to her earpiece before saying, “More on this week’s unusual lawlessness after this.” 

The program shifted to an ad advertising a long-lasting nail polish.

“You know,” a man at the bar said suddenly, turning to the person on his right, “he saved me a year and a half ago.”

“What?” The woman next to him asked, speaking loudly above the music. 

“Spider-Man,” he gestured to the TV which was now trying to get helpless New Yorkers to buy an encyclopedia. “He saved me during a shooting at Weston’s gas, over on Clyde.”

“...Okay?” She said, taking a sip of her cocktail. 

“It’s just–” he looked at the TV again as if it would give him more information, “–he’s missing.”

“Oh, I’m–sorry?” she shrugged, giving him a sympathetic look.

“It’s fine,” he said after a moment. What did he know about Spider-Man anyway? He was technically a criminal, right? He shook his head, clearing his mind, and finished his whiskey. Enough about vigilantes. There was good music playing, and his throat burned with the remnants of his drink. He had better things to do.

***

“Wait–Clint, come look at this,” Bruce spoke up for the first time in over a few hours, his eyes glued to his computer screen. It had been four days since they had been told that Tony was missing, and every day that passed seemed to draw them deeper into the mud, deeper without hope. After seventy-two hours, the chances of finding a missing person dropped to almost zero. That wouldn’t exactly stop the Avenger’s from looking after one of their own, but it didn’t feel good either. It had been over a week since anyone had seen Tony, and JARVIS was still unoperational. His kidnappers had truly done a number on him. 

“What is it?” Clint asked, desperate for some news, good or bad. He swiveled his chair over to Bruce’s computer.

“Watch this.” Bruce tapped a corner of his screen, and a video popped up. It was grainy, and showed a dark street. The time-stamp was late, past midnight. 

“What am I supposed to be seeing?” Clint leaned forward, peering intently at the screen as though it would be clearer if he were six inches closer. 

“Watch again,” Bruce instructed, slowing the video down. “There!”

He pointed at the screen when the tiniest of blips flashed across it, a sudden white screen taking over for just a millisecond.

“What does it mean? The film is old?” Clint asked, a little crestfallen. He thought Bruce had found Tony or had, at least, figured  _ something  _ out.

“Wait,” Bruce said, typing quickly into his computer. The moment of white flashed across the screen, and he froze it in place, pausing the video. Scrolling, he darkened the brightness until a figure in a long coat could be seen, from the back, facing a thin figure. 

“What?” Clint felt like with every one of Bruce's ‘wait’ he grew more and more confused.

“There’s footage missing. Almost three minutes of it. This is the same night Tony was supposed to have gone missing, in relatively the same neighborhood JARVIS lost contact in.”

“Oh.” The word was full of understanding. If this was connected–

“Can you recover the footage?” he asked, clinging to the idea. 

“Just give me a couple hours.” Bruce hesitated before saying, “Tony would be better at this–he was always better at the engineering side of things–but” He hesitated again, “Yes.”

“I’ll go tell Fury,” Clint said, already halfway to the door. “We have a lead!”

“We  _ might _ have a lead,” Bruce said softly as the door swung shut behind Clint. He hoped he had made the right decision telling him, and he hoped that this video was somehow connected. 

***

The flowers on the grave of May Parker, beloved wife and aunt, were wilted. Since her death, they had been replenished, once a week for every week without fail. Sometimes, they were a small bouquet of daisies, but sometimes, if the man in the black hoodie had gotten a little extra cash, they were roses or carnations, or, her favorite, lilies. 

The graveyard was a small plot just behind a row of stores on the west side of Queens, next to where Ben Parker had been put to rest several years earlier. The flowers next to his grave were wilted too, another rare occurrence. The graves missed their secret visitor, and the flowers he brought. No one had been by to visit and talk in over a week. 

Even the cemetery knew something was wrong.

  
  


  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know how you guys feel about how the change of perspective in this one! Expect some shenanigans back with Tony and Peter next chapter!! ;)  
> As always, thanks for reading!


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait, but the chapter's a little longer than my recent ones, so maybe that makes up for something? (probably not...) And thanks so much for the comments and kudos! You're make my little writer heart sing!  
> Enjoy!

 

It was sort of a surprise to Peter when he realized that he’d fallen into a routine. Of all the places to finally have consistency in his life, he did not expect it in the weird scientific dungeon that was this place. But, a routine he did have. Wake up, eat with Tony. Watch Tony be escorted out. Wait fifteen minutes; try to keep his breathing regular when images of the previous days' tortures start flashing in the dark behind his eyelids.  Then, like always, he’d be escorted out too.

He swallowed, and in his mind tried to skip over what came next.

Eventually, he’d be escorted back, worse for wear, and allow Tony to treat his injuries as best as he can. It was a regular practice, and one that Peter sneakingly suspected brought them _both_ peace. Or purpose, or something.

“Peter? Still with us?” The woman interrupted his thoughts. He noticed that she was using the royal ‘us,’ because unless there was someone hiding in the shadows, they were alone in the room.

“Last I checked.”

Peter didn’t like the sound of his voice; it caught him off-guard. Hoarse and raspy, it scratched at the back of his throat when he spoke. It sounded like a stranger’s.

“Good,” She said, raising a large syringe.

“Back for more?” He asked, a bit louder this time.

“Not quite,” She said coyly, pressing slightly into the plunger. “Today is different.”

Something dripped from the tip of the needle, and all at once like a flood, Peter realized what was different. He couldn't stop the quickness in his breath.

“What’s in that?” There were waves in his voice, but now, maybe blessedly, he could hardly hear it.

“A little something to see if our sessions have been worth their time,” She shot him a quick reassuring smile. “Not that they don’t satisfy my own personal curiosity, of course.”

“Great,” Peter said but his voice was thin and his breath felt even thinner. Anything could be in that syringe. This woman hasn’t shown . . . any signs of a stable mind yet this far, so it was anyone’s guess. Particularly, Peter’s guess. He wished he didn’t have to guess.

“Breath deep,” she instructed, positioning the syringe above his upper arm.

Peter found it difficult to breathe at all, his anxiety through the roof. If the roof hadn’t been cement and fifteen feet above them. She pushed the plunger down, propelling the mystery substance into his bloodstream.

At first, Peter thought it was his imagination, but he could feel the way it burned in his veins. It was fire, shooting through his body centimeters below his skin. If he had been free, he would have been clawing at his body, skin, anything to get at whatever was making it hurt _so badly._ As it were, he was writhing within his restraints. He couldn't even scream, his throat constricted and closed. His chest shook with the effort it took to breathe. He saw glimpses of the room around him, flashes of her ponytail, his own legs beneath him, the gray of the wall, and then as soon as it had begun, it was over.

He lay, panting, staring at the ceiling, his whole body tingling with the sudden absence of agony.

“Now, I guess I should make sure it worked,” she winked down at Peter, who was still panting heavily.

She picked up the knife (a trusty favorite), and nicked the soft flesh of Peter’s lower arm, watching the blood pool out and drip to the table beneath him. Peter didn’t register the pain at first, until he realized something that shook him down to his very core.

The cut wasn’t disappearing, the pain wasn’t receding. It remained, stubborn and smarting.

“What?” he raised his head, blinking rapidly. “What!?” he said again, louder in his hoarse voice.

“Your healing ability can lead to issues, Mr. Parker.” She gave him a disapproving look, as if he should be ashamed of that. “And so can that of your companions.”

“Companions?” he repeated, voice cracking, but internally all he could hear was _healing ability. Healing ability. Healing ability._ He swallowed back a sob. _Where was his healing ability?_

“The Avengers, and their own healing abilities. If we can learn how to… temper it, let’s say, then our lives would be a lot simpler.” She made another cut, an inch to the right of the first one, a little deeper. Peter felt the knife slice through his skin like it was butter. _Stupid, unhealing butter._

She made identical cuts on his other arm, matching her handiwork almost exactly. There was something methodical about the way she continued through Peter’s pained gasps, something logical. Today, the cuts were in a line, and she wasn’t watching the heart rate monitor. She didn’t care about the wounds now, just about the fact that they’d still be there tomorrow.

She moved onto his torso, cutting shallow but smarting dashes across his chest. He groaned, arching his back up to the ceiling. The desperation was stronger and more hopeless than usual. Desperate to get away, hopeless because if he did, then he’d be just as helpless as he was trapped here. His healing ability was gone, somehow. She took it - stole it - away from him. His breathing, unsteady, caught in his throat.

Today’s cuts weren’t superficial because she was kind, they were shallow was because she was afraid of killing him. She needed him to be alive tomorrow.

The knowledge that she could kill him as easily as any man sent shivers down his spine. Goosebumps appeared on his bloodied arms, and he couldn't look anywhere than straight up. The only thing, the only string of hope he could cling to was that his spidey-sense was still going strong, screaming in the rush of blood next to his ear to _Get away!_

It was proof that, if nothing else, his powers were still there. His spidey-sense, his strength. ( _Not that his strength was doing much against these reinforced bars_ , he thought, tugging half heartedly against his wrist, ignoring the pain of the rush of blood to his arms.)

“Peter? Still with us?” she asked, murmuring to him as she finished up the row of bloody tallies in his flesh.

He tried to nod, and then banged his head against the table underneath him.

“Yes,” he tried again, tongue thick with blood. “But if you could drop me off at the nearest McDonald’s, there’d be no hard feelings, promise.”

It was meant to be funny, but the slur of his words took his intentions and threw them out the window. _I wish there were windows,_ Peter thought, his mind wandering dangerously as he looked across the uniform field of gray, only broken by the woman standing to his left. She put down her knife, but Peter’s heart rate didn’t slow. It couldn't mean anything good. Nothing in this goddamn room ever meant anything good.

“You’re almost done for today, Peter,” she said, her voice reassuring. “Just a couple more touch-ups. We want to be able to compare different types of wounds.” She paused, and gave him a kind look. “You’ve been very helpful to us.”

“Well, my fucking pleasure,” Peter said, unable to stop himself. It felt foreign and strange. Immediately, he wished he could take it back, but another part of his brain screamed at him for being ashamed of swearing in front of his _torturer._

To her credit, she seemed much less concerned with what Peter had said than Peter himself. Peter supposed that if one spends most of their time torturing helpless twenty-two year olds, a little f-word wouldn’t be that jarring.

She walked around the chair, her heels clicking against the cement floors and echoing in his ringing ears. Her hand trailed his arm, stopping at the bottom of his left arm.

His fingers.

“No-” He said, choking. He clenched his hand into a fist, spidey-sense going haywire.

“Peter,” she shook her head. “We can’t have that.” She raised the small remote, threatening electrocution. In that moment, Peter hated the little plastic device more than he ever had.

Slowly, with trembling fingers, Peter unfurled his fist. There was some blood on his hand that had dripped down from his arm.

“That’s better,” she gave him an approving nod.

She gripped his pointer finger, looking at him steadily. “One, Two -”

She twisted.

There was a small pop, interrupted by a wrenched whimper from Peter, who jolted in his seat. She moved on to the next. Peter’s breathing was harsh and unsteady, and he made no effort to change it. All his energy was being rerouted toward keeping his fist open. Every fiber of his being was telling him _Close it! Duh! Peter, come on!_ But, open it remained. Vulnerable.

Another twist. Another half-scream. Peter didn’t have the energy for more.

“We only need two fingers, don’t you think?”

Peter wasn’t sure she was asking him, mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure he could answer her without spitting in her face. Or something equally suicidal.

She waited for a moment before continuing, keeping an eye on Peter. “Two is alright for now. Let’s get you back to your room.”

Peter didn’t respond again. She dusted her hands, and got to work.

With a click, she flipped the switch on the heart monitor, and suddenly, they were in silence. Peter’s ears rang with the absence of his own heart rate. She began working on his restraints, her practiced hand quickly undoing the buckle. Finished with the ankles, she moved on to his wrists, and that’s when everything zoomed into focus for Peter.

Peter, who was still reeling with shock. He couldn't heal. If he wasn’t about to die right then and there, he would die soon, he could feel it in his bones. _Especially the broken ones,_ he thought, his left hand throbbing. He needed to get out. There was a hidden blessing in all of this.

She needed him alive - for now. His healing ability wasn’t working, which meant she had to be more careful. _Which meant,_ Peter thought with a growing smile, _I’m not nearly as incapacitated as usual._

Sure, his fingers were broken. But only two, and on the left hand. And all of his cuts were shallow. Not a real threat (or, at least Peter hoped they wouldn’t quite be a real threat. He was really banking on them not being a real threat)

It all came together when he noticed a little round indent in her lab coat pocket as she was undoing his restraints.

The remote.

If he could get her remote, that little devil-box, she’d have no power over him. _Not to mention -_ he thought suddenly, a gleeful energy rising up in him - _she thinks my powers are completely gone. She isn’t expecting anything._

“Can I-” he coughed. For as much as his brain had gone into hyper-drive, his voice was still playing the part of a very injured man. “Can I just ask one thing?” he tried again.

She tilted half of her mouth up in a version of a smirk. “Go ahead.” She finished with his restraints.

“What exactly did you put in me?” He asked, slowly sitting up. “Cause, you know, if I’m having a slow week, I wouldn’t mind a vial or two.” He swung his legs over the chair, his voice beginning to run smoother. “In case I needed to challenge myself, or something.” He gave her a rare smile. “You get it.”

Before she could respond, he lunged forward, grabbing at her lab coat with his good hand.

She screamed, and fell backward, skirting herself away from him.

But it was too late. He had a handful of fabric in his fist, tightly won.

“Peter -” She said, voice slightly higher than he was used to. “Be careful! I know things about you - things you can’t unsay-”

Peter pulled. The coat ripped away from her body, a tear running all the way up the back. He fumbled for a moment and grabbed the small remote.

“What things?” he asked, for once, towering over the woman with his 5’ 10’’ frame.

“You know-” her eyes darted from his to the door and back, “-your identity. Who your friends are-”

He crushed the remote in one hand.

She let out a gasp, and then immediately looked ashamed, as if she _shouldn’t_ be afraid in this situation. Peter’s anger boiled. She should be very, very, afraid.

But then, it faltered. He couldn't keep this up. The room was beginning it’s tell-tale spin, and his whole body throbbed in the off-beat of his heart. His left hand was nearly useless.

He stood there, swaying for a moment, staring her down.

“Peter-” she tried again, her voice hesitating.

“No.”

He shook his head once, nearly sending him out of balance and to the floor. He didn’t have time for this. He reached to his right, fumbling for something, anything on the table. His fingers find the knife, _the_ knife, but he passes it over. Too slow. Too messy. He kept fumbling, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

She’s standing up - she’s coming toward him - she’s almost there -

He raised his fist at the last second, and brought it down, heavy on her skull. There was a crack, and she crumpled to the floor, unmoving.

He didn’t stop and check her pulse. He wasn’t even sure he could kneel to the ground and stand back up again.

He stumbled backward, still holding the broken pieces of the remote. He wrenched the door open. It was locked, but he didn't really notice.

_I have to get out of here._

***

Blaring alarms interrupted Tony’s very important business of sitting in the lab, firmly ignoring the vials of Peter’s blood. He raised his head from its usual position in his hand, and glanced up at the ceiling. There were red lights he hadn’t noticed before, glaring in beat with the alarm.

His first thought was FIRE! But, quickly, he shook his head. This was something else. This was Peter.

Slowly, he stood from his stool, looking around for a weapon to grab. He settled on a large beaker, holding it carefully in front of him, ready to smack whoever burst into the room. He was finally getting out of here. No more dry biscuits for breakfast, god help him. Back to special-order pastries, from whichever country met his fancy that day.

He could almost taste the pastry when suddenly, the door flung open, breaking the lock.

He raised his beaker quickly, falling into a fighting stance.

He fell out of it as quickly as he had made it when he realized Peter stood there, bleeding, and most importantly - standing alone.

“Peter?” he asked cautiously, lowering his beaker.

“Were you going to-” Peter paused, took what sounded like a very harrowing breath, and continued, “-were you going to hit me with a plastic beaker?”

“No,” Tony said, placing it on the counter behind him.

“Uh-huh,” Peter said, breathing like he had just run a marathon. He stood there, chest heaving (and bleeding) in the lab’s doorway.

“Uh, kid?” Tony prompted after a moment. “Peter?” He stepped forward until he was less than a foot from the trembling figure.

Peter stumbled back. “Sorry, I don’t - there was something important -” Suddenly, his head snapped up. “Oh right. The important thing - we gotta go.”

“We have to go?” Tony repeated. “Do you have a _plan?_ ”

“Uh-” Peter glanced at the doorway behind him. “Run?”

“Great.”

“But we really do gotta go -” he fixes Tony with an uncharacteristically serious look. “Now.”

“Then lead the way.”

***

His mind was mush, Peter decided as he ran down the hall. Plain old, oatmeal like, mush.

“Where’s that woman? Or the guy with the greasy hair?” Tony asked, running alongside Peter easily.

“Don’t know.”

There’s a beat, and they keep running.

“Oh, wait,” Peter corrects himself, the ghost of a smile on his face. “The woman. I knocked her unconscious.”

“You?” Tony said, his voice laced with surprise.

“Me,” Peter agreed. His voice was haggard, but there was pride there. “And -” he continued, even though he was breathless from the running, “- I also broke the little remote thingy.”

Tony gave a low whistle.

Peter wondered how he did that while running.

“Here,” Tony said suddenly, veering off into a large doorway that had to be at least half a mile from their cell. _How big was this very literal underground operation?_ Peter thought.

The entered the door, Peter on Tony’s heels. He couldn't feel his own feet anymore, but they kept pumping beneath him, loyal to the end.

There were four cars, all black, lined up against the wall. Even better, there was what looked like an exit. It was large, and ramped up.

“Car garage,” Tony said, stopping.

“Car garage,” Peter repeated, lurching to a stop besides him.

“Have a favorite?” Peter asked, glancing around. They were all nearly identical.

“We don’t have time for a favorite,” Tony corrected, heading toward the closest one.

“You drive,” Peter said as he limped toward the passenger’s side.

Tony had already begun walking toward the driver’s side, but he nodded in agreement.

“Do you think these evil super villains are stupid enough to keep their keys in the glove compartment?” Peter asked, climbing into the passenger’s side.

“They were stupid enough to kidnap me,” Tony said, reaching above the steering wheel to check the compartment. Keys fell out into his lap.

“See?” he raised them to Peter, who could only raise one thumb up in response.

The car rumbled to life as Tony turned the key. Peter let the momentary joy rise in him. _They really were getting out of here._

“None-stop road to home, Peter.” Tony said, throwing the car into drive.

“Can’t wait,” he said, beginning to feel drowsiness in the corners of his mind. It felt so good to sit. Why had he never appreciated sitting before?

The car jolted forward, and Tony gripped the wheel. The gate wouldn’t open.

Neither would Peter’s eyes.

“Hold on tight,” Tony warned, eyes glued to the ramp in front of him. He reversed as far as he could, watching carefully in the mirror.

“M’kay,” Peter mumbled, his head drooping to one side.

Tony didn’t have time to glance at Peter. He put the car in drive and dropped his foot, forcing the pedal to go all the way down to the floor.

They shot forward, breaking through the gate, and flying up the ramp. Tony wrenched the wheel around, keeping them from crashing into the wall.

“Good job,” Peter said, his voice becoming listless.

“Peter?” Tony said, still taking corners quickly. There was no response. “Peter? _Morgan?”_ he asked more urgently, still on the ramp underground.

“Just so you know - I can’t heal,” Peter said quietly, though heavy lips. “I can’t-” he shrugged his arms. “I can’t heal.” His eyelids fluttered, and then shut firmly, just as Tony burst into daylight for the first time in over a week.

He wanted to shout, to whoop, or raise his arms in celebration, but somehow, his body wasn't responding to his commands. 

His brain was stopping. It was mush, just like it had been in the hallway. _But now,_ Peter reasoned with himself, _now he could sleep_.

Tony was driving, and that woman was unconscious.

He could sleep.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! School started this month and man, I've been busy! The chapter's kind of short, but there should be another one soon (within the week - hopefully) so look forward to that! Thanks for sticking with me and my busy schedule!

Peter’s body was small in the seat next to Tony. It made his skin crawl, how small it was. Not even six feet tall, and, right now, it was slumped over, curled into the smallest shape he could possibly make his already small figure. He kept glancing at it, despite the fact he was definitely going over the speed limit on whatever highway this was. Not that he had seen a speed limit sign, nor could he, in good conscience, call it a highway. There were barely two lanes, and the yellow line meant to differentiate the two was faded and barely there. Trees whipped past them on either side of the road, and Tony hadn’t seen more than two cars so far.

It was an old road in a car with limited gas, they had bad guys after them, and Tony’s only companion in the world right now was unconscious and injured. But the sun shone on his face, the windows were open, and there was fresh air billowing through the car. 

Wherever they were, it wasn’t New York City. It could be Upstate, but Tony hadn’t seen a road sign for over three hours, and those that he did had names he definitely did not recognize. So, his only hope was to keep driving. 

The only problem with that was of course that their gas tank wasn’t infinite. He was almost, basically, literally running on empty. 

But, worse than that, was Peter’s state. Tony wasn’t sure what was more dire, Peter’s ragged breathing or the little red marker on his dashboard that was hovering over the “E.”

The car sped on. 

Peter’s heart kept beating.

Tony would worry about the rest later. First things first: find a phone, find a first aid kit, find the Avengers. 

***

To be honest, Tony thought he would have an easier time finding a phone than he did. The car kept going until, nearly seven hours after they had escaped, it sputtered out, at the very end of its rope. 

It jerked forward a few more feet until it began to roll, coming to a stop when Tony slammed his feet on the brakes. 

Slowly, Peter raised his head. His eyes looked clearer than they had back at the compound.

“Why’d we stop?” he ran a hand through his hair, which was heavy, matted and in desperate need of a wash. 

“No gas in the tank. We’ve gone as far as we can by car.” Tony watched the fuel gage for another moment, hoping that suddenly, magically, it would spring back to a “full tank,” but he was much too practical to think it would happen. 

“What are we close to?” Peter asked, yawning widely as he glanced out his window for the first time in hours. His chest was still worryingly covered with blood, mostly dried and sticky. 

“There was a sign a little bit ago for Tioga County Central Schools, but I’m not sure what the hell that is.”

“Upstate. Near Ithaca, kind of,” Peter said, stretching his arms. That had been a trivia question in his senior year of school, almost five years ago. 

“How far upstate?” Tony asked, dreading the answer. 

“About four or five hours, give or take. It’s kind of small, I think.”

“Of course it is.” 

He spoke under his breath. No need to upset Peter who looked like he wouldn’t be able to handle it right now. Frail, petite, and young, it seemed impossible that Peter was alive right now, let alone as clear-headed as he was. Weird, weird guy.

“We have to get out and walk,” Peter said after another moment of silence passed. Tony swiveled his head to look at him. 

“You? Walk?” He tilted his head in sarcasm at Peter. “You’d get ten feet and drop dead.”

“I’m . . . feeling a lot better, actually,” he said slowly, glancing at the ground when he said it. 

Another car zoomed by them, honking. 

“We’ve gotta get out of the middle of the road. And away from this car. I’m not sure if they can run plates, or whatever, but we’ve been lucky this far and we shouldn’t push it,” Peter reiterated, unbuckling himself from his seat. Tony was still for another moment, and then followed suit. 

“You realize how we look?”

Peter, wearing only boxers, and covered in blood looked down at himself. 

“I’m not much better,” Tony said, gesturing to his bare chest.

“Hopefully, we go into town, and they feel bad for us, not weirded out by us,” Peter said, opening his door. 

“Coming?”

“I’m not about to let the cripple out-do me, am I?”

Abandoning the SUV, they climbed to the side of the road until they were walking right alongside the tree line. A few cars passed, one or two honking at them. Tony knew they were quite a sight. Anyone in their right mind would grab their kid and run in the other direction. 

***

“Look-” Peter pointed upwards, to a sign advertising a Hampton Inn around the next bend. “We’re close.”  _ Thank god, _ he thought to himself, just as Tony said;

“Thank god,” out loud. They’d been plodding one foot in front of another for over an hour now and they were goddamn tired of it. 

“I’d better not be arrested for public indecency,” Peter said as they approached the hotel, slowing by the steps. 

“You won’t be. If anything, you’ll be in the papers cause you’ve been found with Tony Stark,” Tony said, shrugging his shoulders. They were stopped at the bottom of the steps, the Hampton’s parking lot behind them. “You ready?”

“Aye-aye, cap’m,” Peter said, swinging his hand in a salute. 

They mounted the steps, Peter a step behind the taller man. 

“Here goes nothing,” he said as Tony pressed open the door.

A soft ding-dong echoed around them as the door swung open. The lobby was nice, with a rich red carpet and complicated looking overhead chandeliers. It was probably the biggest hotel Peter had ever seen

“How can I help-” the receptionist’s voice died off as she raised her head from her computer to look at who had entered. Her eyes were wide, and her mouth seemed permanently open. 

“We need to borrow your phone,” Tony asked, leaning up on the desk as if he were still in his Armani, not barefoot in the lobby of a middle-class hotel chain.

“Oh, my god-” She stood from her desk, her chair scraping on the tiles. “Oh, my god!”

Tony glanced back at Peter, as if to say,  _ Yeah, I get this a lot. _

“Not quite, honey,” he told the receptionist after she uttered “Oh, my  _ God, _ ” for the third time.

“Oh my god-!” she said, again, when she noticed Peter. That time, her voice had been more hushed.

“Hiya.” Peter gave a little wave and stepped out from behind Tony. “Don’t mind me.”

“Not to ask again, but we do need to borrow the phone,” Tony repeated, one arm still on the front desk. By now, a few spectators had gathered from other parts of the hotel. A family with a little girl, an old couple, and a group of young people were all clustered on the outskirts of the lobby, staring at them. One of the younger adults had their phone out, and she rotated carefully with it out in front of her, capturing the entire scene. 

“Phone?” Tony prodded. 

Silently, the woman pulled out her personal cell phone and held it out to Tony, palm up, like an offering. He took it, deftly swiping upward and flipped the phone to the “Calls” app.

Peter shifted his weight behind them awkwardly, a hand seemingly glued to the back of his neck. 

“Ma’am, I’ll be right over there. I’ll be sending you a phone in the mail soon, alright? An upgrade.” Tony gestured for Peter to follow him.

“Who are we calling?” 

“Captain America, probably,” Tony shrugged, dialing in the number.

“Right,” Peter said weakly, leaning his shoulders behind him on the wall. There were still some people waiting in the lobby, but now, hidden in the alcove, they were sufficiently out of sight. Out of sight. Out of everyone's sight. Not the publics', not the woman's, not anyone's. Peter's breath hitched, and a small hiccup traveled up his throat treacherously.  _I'm going to betray my bad boy image,_ he thought to himself, but even privately he couldn't commit to the joke. 

Tony dropped the phone from his ear. 

“Peter?” He asked, looking him up and down. “Are you -” He shook his head “-Are you alright?”

Nodding, Peter bit his lip, and stared to the ceiling above him. He was fine.  _ He was fine. _

“Peter?” Tony said again, stepping forward. 

“Just call,” Peter ground out, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling. He couldn't tell Tony why he was suddenly pumping out the waterworks. No way, no how. 

_ He was healed _ .  _Completely._ His healing ability was back, twenty-four hours later. 

And - he was out, free and above ground. No suit, no web shooters, but _free_.  _ And,  _ He thought to himself, those persistent tears brimming,  _I can heal. Whatever it was wore off._

“Just call,” Peter repeated. 

“Alright,” Tony agreed slowly, but he put an arm around Peter all the same. 

He wasn’t sure if it was subconscious or not, but he didn’t care as he let his head fall to the side in the crook of Tony’s arm. He never thought he would feel this happy again. He buried his face harder, and turned his body to Tony’s, gripping him tightly.

“We’re out,” He said, his voice heavier than the ocean. 

Tony dropped the phone to the ground without another thought and wrapped both arms around Peter.

“We’re out.” He pulled Peter tighter, his own voice cracking now. “We’re out.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what think below! (And when will Peter finally reveal his secret to Tony?!)


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a long wait again, but school is school, and thus, is sucky. Hopefully, another chapter will be uploaded in about a week (or less) and then things will really begin to pick up ;))))
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with Tony and Peter, and please enjoy the chapter! Let me know how you feel about it in the comments, I love (!!!) reading them so so so so much!
> 
> On with the show!

At the sound of sky and earth shaking, Peter looked up, his eyes widening despite himself. 

“The quinjet,” Tony said, completely unnecessarily. Peter couldn't just  _ see _ the thing, he could feel it vibrating in every fiber of his super-enhanced self. It was the largest aircraft Peter had ever seen, by far. So much for on-the-ground, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. (Though, he wasn’t sure how much of that Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man was left.) 

His mouth was dry. First time meeting Earth’s mightiest heroes - out of the suit, anyway - and he’d be wearing dirty boxers and a blanket stolen from the hotel they were standing in front of. Tony, on the other hand, clad only in his old sweatpants and an unkempt goatee, stood just as he had in the hotel not thirty minutes earlier. Full of swaggering confidence that Peter envied enormously. 

Landing the craft seemed to be a huge task in and of itself. Even standing as far away as they were, the wind threatened to knock Peter’s tired frame down to the asphalt. Tony’s hand surreptitiously gripped the small of his back, simultaneously stabling and comforting the smaller hero. 

The first man out of quinjet was tall, broad and blond. Unmistakably, Captain America. Peter tried to contain himself. 

“Tony, thank God you’re alright,” He hugged the smaller man without preamble, knocking Tony’s hand out from behind Peter’s back. Tony, laughing, returned the hug, slapping his back. The warmth left on Peter’s back was growing cold. 

“Fuck you, man,” A new guy, also blond - why was everyone blond? - came up and slapped Tony’s back. “Don’t you  _ ever  _ do that again.” 

Dimly, Peter presumed this was Clint, though it was difficult to tell without the purple outfit or the arrows. He drew his blanket tighter around his person. 

“You really better not.” Finally, someone who wasn’t blond walked up. Her movements catlike, and her hair a fiery red, she was instantly recognizable as the Black Widow. It helped that Peter’s spidey sense seemed to go confused as soon as she entered his line of sight. She was, truly, an enigma. Not to mention she was wearing her traditional black spandex. Peter guessed the only times she wasn’t wearing it was when she was in the shower, and even then, he wasn’t sure.

Men in uniform were filing out of the aircraft too, but the group in front of Peter was ignoring them. They were par for the course, he assumed, but he couldn't help but keep one eye on them. He wasn’t in the suit, not even close, but once you’ve been shot at by what seems like every guy on the NYPD, uniforms with holsters begin to give you the creeps.  

“Tony?” He couldn't resist asking. “Who are they?”

The other avengers looked to Peter in surprise, as if they hadn’t noticed him yet. Tony glanced at the guys lining their space, cordoning off where citizens were and weren’t allowed to go.

“They’re just Fury’s guys. No one to worry about.”

There must have been something on Peter’s face because he continued; “I promise. They’re completely harmless. Just little men, with their little guns.” He gestured to the group of people still staring at Peter in surprise. “Nothing we couldn't handle if we needed to. Not that we need to.”

Peter nodded. 

Captain America was the first to overcome the initial shock of seeing blanket-clad Peter standing in the Avenger’s circle. 

“Son, I’m Steve Rogers,” He presented a meaty hand for Peter to shake. His own hand felt miniscule in comparison. “Nice to meet you.” Peter could tell that, behind the pleasantries, there were a million questions waiting to be asked.

“Same here,” He said awkwardly, giving his hand a shake. 

“I’m Clint,” The second blond man shook Peter’s hand next, eyeing the shorter man discerningly. “She’s Natasha.”

Natasha waved, a small gesture Peter might have missed if it wasn’t for her commanding presence. He nodded politely in her direction, wondering if he’d ever not be freaked out by her. 

“Hey, hey, sorry I’m late, they didn’t-” 

Dr. Bruce Banner was running up through the line of men that surrounding their little pow-wow in the middle of the parking lot. Tony turned to face him, a grin on his face. 

“Banner, long time no see,” He said, reaching out to embrace the man. 

“And who’s fault is that?” He asked, but there was a smile in his words and on his face. Meanwhile, Peter was quietly  _ losing his shit _ because  _ Dr. Bruce Banner was standing right in front of him. _ Sure, Tony Stark was a genius inventor and engineer, but Banner was a  _ chemist _ , (among other things) and had written  _ the most leading _ papers and studies on quantum chemistry. Without some of his research, Peter’s webbing would have been impossible. (Or at least, delayed until Peter could connect some of the dots himself.)

Forget ‘Earth’s Mightiest Heroes’, forget the rescue, Bruce Banner was here, in front of Peter, in the flesh. 

“Uh, Peter?” Tony asked after a minute. “Is everything okay?” His voice was kind, intimate, hushed, like he didn’t want to embarrass Peter (or himself) in front of all his special Super-Hero friends, but Peter just nodded.

“I’m a huge fan,” He blurted out, sticking his hand out to shake Bruce’s. 

“Oh, uh,” The man’s cheeks flushed slightly. “Thanks, but that’s not really me. Just a weird, scientific mistake.”

“No, not the Hulk, but he’s cool too,” Peter waved his hand impatiently, the private army and The Avengers afterthoughts in his peripheral vision. “I mean your work in quantum chemistry and physics, it changed the way I think about everything.”  _ Changed the way I live, _ he thought quickly to himself. “I’ve read basically every single thing you’ve ever published. It’s an incredible honor.” He was still shaking Bruce’s hand.

“Oh, well, thank you?” His voice was shaky, and he locked eyes with Tony, looking for an explanation, but Tony looked just as surprised as Bruce, if not more so. 

“Peter, you mean to tell me, over the last two weeks, you never thought to mention the fact you were smart? Not even a little bit?” Tony interrupted, facing Peter with a look of incredulity. 

“I was kinda busy.”

Tony quieted, almost immediately, and the feeling in the air between them and the Avengers was tangible in it’s awkwardness. 

“We’re talking, as soon as we get to the Tower,” He compromised finally, nodding to Peter. 

“Good with me.”

“Look - am I the only one who’s a little confused here?” Clint interrupted, sharing a glance between them. “Who are you, actually?”

“I’m just Peter,” He said, spreading his hands slightly, but keeping the blanket around him. 

“He was with me,” Tony explained, running a hand through his dirty hair. “And he’s been through a lot.”

Peter didn’t need a mirror to know that his face went red. He could feel it in the warmth all up his neck. 

“Let’s go, then,” Steve said, always the commander. “We’ll get you checked out on the quinjet.”

“Come on, Peter,” Natasha gestured for him to follow them up the ramp. Most of the uniforms followed suit, but a couple remained on the ground, even as the jet raised into the air. It wasn’t nearly as loud or as Earth-shaking when you were  _ inside _ the jet. Peter itched to take a look at the engine room, if this kind of aircraft was even old-fashioned enough to have that kind of compartment organization.

“Peter, come with me, if you could,” Bruce poked his head into the lounge where Peter was sitting in awkward silence with Clint and Natasha. Tony had disappeared as soon as they had taken off, telling Peter he was off to call Pepper. Peter had nodded, and tried to ignore the jolt of fear and jealousy that had ran through him. 

“Sure,” Peter said, his mind running wild with questions he could ask Bruce. 

“Tony told me to check you out, privately.” He glanced at Peter nervously. “Said you wouldn’t do well with a lot of people overwhelming you all at once.”

“I’m fine,” Came Peter’s stock answer, but silently, he thanked Tony. 

“Let me check that, if you don’t mind,” Bruce held open a door to a small white room, with a medical table in the center. 

Ice jerked it’s way in Peter’s heart for a split second when he laid eyes upon it - a flash of a blond ponytail flew behind his eyes - but he recovered just as quickly as he had been affected.

“Take a seat.”

Gingerly, Peter poised himself on the edge of the bed.  _ I have my powers, _ he reminded himself in a mantra, silently.  _ I am in control. _

“I need to you to take off that blanket, kid.” Bruce’s instruction sounded almost like an afterthought as he was preoccupied with the machines around him, ready to check Peter’s medical state. 

The EKG machine sent another shard of terrifying ice into his heart and for a moment, Peter could hear the old  _ beep, beep, beep  _ of his heartbeat in that underground torture chamber. 

Carefully, Peter slid the blanket off his aching body. It fell to the floor in a silent puddle of cheap fabric and he shivered in the cold. Blood still covered his body. 

“God,” Bruce said when he turned around, looking at the smaller man. “What happened?” He shook his head, looking closer. “Tony didn’t go into detail.”

“I’m fine. Really. They pumped me full of stuff, it’s okay.” Peter tried reassuring the older man, to no avail. He attached the nodes to the same spots on Peter’s body as Oscar usually did. Peter had to bite the inside of his cheek and focus on his spidey sense - which was, reassuringly, not pinging - in order to keep himself from running out right there. Everything was too soon, too familiar for comfort. He stayed still.

“I just gotta see which stuff,” Bruce told him, checking the machines. After a second, he nodded, apparently satisfied, and he took out a large, dampened towel. 

“I can clean myself, if that’s what you’re after,” Peter said quickly. He did jazz hands quickly. “See? Admire the fine motor skills.”

He was glad his fingers weren’t broken anymore, otherwise his jazz hands would have been very depressing. 

“Here, then.” Bruce tossed him the towel, and Peter caught it in mid-air. He began wiping his blood off, scrubbing his body harshly. There were scars across his torso that were revealed the longer he worked to get rid of the blood. The scientist across from him was deep in the paperwork. 

“How old are you?” He asked, frowning at the papers he was holding.

“Twenty-two,” Peter said.

“Full name?”

“Peter Parker,” He said, still rubbing away at his chest. 

A moment later, he realized his mistake. Bruce had his real name. God, he was so stupid.  _ God, why hadn’t he said Morgan? _ He should have been better at the secret identity stuff! He thrived on secret identity stuff!

He had to find Tony. And quickly. 


	10. Chapter Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's becoming a bit of a habit, but sorry for the longer wait! NaNoWriMo just kicked off, and I'm trying to keep up with their 50k word count for a personal project, and that's been really fun but also time consuming! But, never fear, dear readers, because this chapter's longer than the last one, so there's more to enjoy. Please leave comments and kudos, they literally always make my day!   
> On with the show!

“Peter … Parker,” Tony tried the new name, rolling the sound of it around in his mouth. Peter liked the way he said his name, his true name; it was intimate and learned and friendly, all at once. Dr. Banner watched from the corner of the lab, leaning against the wall with his arms folded. His eyes were calculating, watching every interaction the two men before him shared. Peter had only let him inspect himself for a moment, before demanding Tony be brought in.  _ Peter Parker, God, stupid. _

“That’s my name, my real one,” Peter’s voice was sheepish, and he crossed his arms before his bare chest, goosebumps rising up in the chilly air of the med bay. “I didn’t want to say it earlier, I don’t know, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“It  _ was  _ a good idea at the time,” Tony fixed him with a look, “Peter Parker. I like it. Peter Parker, kid from the Queens.”

“Peter Parker, kid who should be examined,” Bruce reminded the two of them as they fell into a companionable silence once more.

_ I’m not a kid, _ Peter thought about saying, but he didn’t. His real name still hung in the room, and it felt as though every word he spoke gave way to more scrutiny. It was paranoia, to be sure, but paranoia that ate up at his broken insides. Tony hopped up on the side of the medical bed, sitting with his legs hanging off the edge. 

“Let’s see the great Dr. Banner at work, shall we?” He asked, swinging his feet back and forth. 

“Hold your horses,” Banner said, snapping on thin blue gloves. “Peter, finish up with that towel.”

Peter swiped at the blood on his chest once more for good measure before throwing to towel to the side, expertly aiming it for the edge of the counter behind Bruce. He didn’t look down at himself. He wasn’t sure he was going to like what he saw.

Tony didn’t need to look. He knew what Peter had been going through this whole time, knew exactly what had happened to him. 

“Bruce, check out his left femur too,” Tony said after a moment. Peter looked around at him quickly, his eyes wide.

“Left femur?” Bruce asked, checking his equipment one last time.

“Don’t let Peter fool you, he’s tougher than he looks,” Tony started generously. 

“Hey!” Peter protested, interrupting.

“But a lot more happened than he’s letting on.”

“Sorry, while you were gone my ‘Tony Speak’ grew rusty; what exactly do you mean?” Bruce stood, hands on his hips, looking at the dark haired man.

“The woman who held us?” Tony took a breath, ignoring Peter’s silent minuscule protests, “She broke his femur. I’m not sure it healed correctly.” 

Bruce looked from Tony’s face to Peter’s, back and forth a few times. Peter’s face turned slightly ashen, and he didn’t want to broach the subject further. Tony looked stubborn and righteous, glad to have said what he said, regardless of Peter’s face. 

“His left femur?” Bruce’s voice was weak, and he stole glances to Peter’s lean thigh, inspecting the skin for obvious damage. There was almost none, just some very minor bruising he hadn’t yet noticed. 

“It’s fine. Tony set it for me, afterward,” Peter promised with a wave of his hand. “Can we just get on with it?”

“Peter, anytime you need us to take it slow or you need a break, don’t hesitate to stop us, alright?” Bruce warned quietly, slipping a stethoscope around his neck. “Now, breath deeply for me, wouldn’t you?”

Tony’s face had closed off slightly, staring at Peter’s wounds. Peter’s small glances at Tony’s eyes told him everything he needed to know; his body looked awful. He looked awful. 

“Now, out, if you would?” Bruce said, shifting the cold metal from his chest to his back, listening intently. Tony watched.

“Your heart is fine, and your lungs. Though there’s an abnormality I felt in your ribcage,” Bruce said, making a small note on the docket. 

“Probably a healed rib,” Peter said, shrugging. “It’s fine, now. Just healed over.”

“When we do X-Rays for your leg, we can do some for your ribcage as well, then,” Tony said, reaching over Bruce’s grip to write something down on the clipboard. “No one’s getting hurt on my watch.”

Peter bit his tongue.  _ Not anymore, anyway.  _

“I’m going to take some blood, alright, Peter?” Bruce asked in an almost perfunctory voice, choosing a needle carefully from his selection.

“No-” Peter said, a little too forcefully. “I mean,” he amended quickly, glancing at Bruce’s taken aback face, “I can’t. It’s - it’s-” he threw a look Tony’s way desperately.

“It’s too soon,” Tony supplied, putting a hand on Peter’s bare shoulder. “I say we run the X-Rays, and send him on his way.”

“I have to check his blood, Tony, your guys’ captor could have put anything in him,” Bruce insisted, still gripping the syringe. Peter kept it in his peripheral vision; not out of sight, but not the focus either. He couldn't have handled not knowing where the thing was, but also if it had been right in front of his eyes, he wasn’t sure he could hold back a panic attack. Besides, if they had his blood, they had his identity, even further than his true name. There was a reason he always insisted on  _ “No hospitals,” _ even when it meant healing up at MJ’s or Aunt May’s, and the flu as cover.

“You are twenty-two, you have the right to deny treatment,” Bruce said reluctantly, his eyes very obviously telling the room that he did not agree with what he was saying.

“I deny it,” Peter said quickly. “Are we almost done here?” 

“Almost,” Bruce promised. “If I’m not taking your blood, or doing anything invasive, there’s not much left to do.”

“Good,” Peter said. Tony was silent.

The rest of the ‘check-up’ was quick and nearly completely silent. Bruce bit his bottom lip when inspecting Peter’s scars, most of which Peter wasn’t confident would ever go away. He was healed, yes, but quickly and haphazardly, his metabolism and healing factor had worked double time to stretch new skin over open wounds. They didn’t care about the aesthetics of his skin, just that it was there.

“Peter, Bruce will show you to your chambers, alright?” Tony said, stepping down from his seat on the edge of Peter’s medical bed. There was something in his face, a shadow Peter couldn't make heads or tails of.

“Where are you going?” Peter couldn't stop his first instinctual response. 

“I have to catch up on some paperwork,” Tony said, waving a hand vaguely. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. It’s a small quinjet.”

Peter wanted to say it was much larger than the last apartment he had had, but refrained. He was homeless now, anyway, technically. Once he was sufficiently healed, he would be alone again. Once everyone’s curiosity had died down, he’d be left alone in high-rises destined for destruction once more.

***

She was here, how could she be here? 

The knife was in her hand, the needle in the other, Oscar hovered in the background. All Peter could hear was the  _ beep, beep, beep _ of the machine and his heart, louder with every sound, drowning out everything except his screams. There was blood everywhere, nothing was healing, the room was white, his heart was loud, everything was happening, and then-

“Peter?” Tony’s voice entered the room, his body ragged and broken. Peter was stuck, restrained in that hellish dentist’s chair once more. “Peter, how could you? She  _ killed me. _ ”

Tony’s right, he was dead, but he was walking toward Peter; Peter, who still couldn't get out, he couldn't move, he wasn’t safe, Tony wasn’t Tony, nothing was right. 

“I’m  _ dead, _ Peter. And you couldn't even tell me your real name, could you? You  _ coward, _ ” Tony spat the last word as his head rolled off his shoulders, hitting the ground with a thud. His body crumpled soon afterward. 

“See what happens when you don’t cooperate, Mr. Parker?” The woman stood over him now, holding a drill, it whirred above his chest cavity, he couldn't move, he made his chest as small as possible.

“You need to cooperate, Mr. Parker,” she said again. 

Tony’s body was still on the floor, the woman’s voice in his ears, when Peter woke up suddenly, drenched in sweat and shaking. Cold rivulets of sweat ran down his back, and with shaky fingers he combed through his hair, swinging his legs over the side of his cot. The quinjet hummed silently in the floorboards, something only someone with Spider-Man’s sense could feel, but it gave Peter relief. It was proof they were miles above the Earth, miles away from her. And Tony wasn’t dead. It was just a dream. Tony was still here.

He rose from his bed, taking slightly shaky steps toward the door. He had to get out of this tiny room. The walls seemed to be closing in, the bed took up almost all the square footage. As much as the quinjet gave him relief, it also gave him prison walls; there was nowhere he could go, nothing he could do. He couldn't swing out of a window in the quinjet. If he did, he’d die almost instantly from the shock and cold.

The door to his temporary room slid shut almost silently. The halls of the quinjet were small, and lit with small nightlights every few feet along the ground. Slowly, Peter began to make his way towards Tony’s room. He had to prove to himself that Tony was real. Then he could sleep. 

When he reached Tony’s room, he stood for almost a full minute with his hand poised in a fist above the door, ready to knock. But nothing happened. He didn’t knock, he couldn't. He wasn’t even exactly sure why he was here. Tony was alive, it had only been a dream, logic told him that much. Nonetheless, he stayed, sliding down the door with his back to Tony’s room, taking a seat on the quinjet slightly vibrating floor.

There was a TV on silent, across from him, captions scrolling quickly as newscasters began their midnight segments. Peter watched passively for a few minutes before he saw something that made his breath catch in his throat.

_ “This viral clip, taken the internet by storm, lets hearts rest easy as the public lays eyes on Tony Stark once more. The other man in the video has yet to be identified, though sources are confident that he was held in captivity with Mr. Stark for the past weeks.” _

The news footage plays a video of Tony embracing Peter in a hug, both mens’ grips strong against each other. The footage zoomed in and out in portrait mode, an obviously amateur job. Peter watched from the Stark TV in the quinjet, his hands shaky and curled unwittingly into fists at his side. That was a private moment, shared between only himself and Tony back at the hotel. Not a moment to be broadcast to the entire nation. Peter ignored the fact that if he were still employed with the Bugle, he’d probably be on his way to cover some of the photos. He didn’t want to think about the fact that now, he was the subject, him and his scars. 

Sitting in the threshold, his back against Tony’s door in the quinjet, he wrapped arms around his midsection, around the new light t-shirt. Pain and history was hidden beneath the cotton, a secret. The bags under his eyes, the years the last few weeks added to his face, were not. Peter, to put it simply, looked like shit.

The newscaster was continuing, her mouth moving with words sympathetic and inquisitive, a professional at work, but Peter could barely look her in the eyes. Her blonde hair was tight to her face, swept and curled in a tall ponytail, professionally made by hair stylists. He hated it. He shook slightly against the doorframe. His nightmare still played back in his mind, her standing over him, helplessness, his powers were gone. She cut him, again, again, again, he never healed, he couldn't, Tony was there, he was dying, he couldn't do anything, nothing-

“Peter?”

Peter almost fell backward as the door he was sitting against opened suddenly. A very sleep deprived looking Tony was standing on the other side, silk pajama pants at war with the cotton tee on his torso. 

“Peter, what are you doing here?” He asked, rubbing one hand over his hair, which frustratingly wasn’t even bedhead. It looked good; messy like right after sex. Peter was just relieved to see him.

“Sorry, I-” What  _ was _ he doing here? Certainly not sleeping. Not looking to talk either. 

“I can’t sleep,” he said, settling for what was closest to the truth. He couldn't sleep. Not without Tony’s incessant snoring - he  _ did _ snore, Peter would die on that hill - or his hand on the small of Peter’s back, his shoulder there for Peter to rest on. Peter was untethered here, in the quinjet. Away from the woman, yes, but away from Tony too. 

“I’m not that good at sleeping either,” Tony said finally, and opened his bedroom door wider for Peter to step through. He got to his feet, rubbing the back of his head where it had been resting against the door. The woman with blonde hair was still talking on the television opposite them in the hallway. 

“Do you want a drink?” Tony asked, walking over to his bar. Peter held back a snort. Even in the quinjet, Tony couldn't bear one minute without all his luxuries. “You are over twenty-one, right?”

“Right,” Peter said, sitting gingerly on the edge of Tony’s king size mattress. His own in his room was barely the size of a twin.  _ I guess you’ve got to become a billionaire before they give you suites on quinjets, _ Peter thought to himself momentarily, realizing what a strange sentence it was as he thought it. Sure, he was Spider-Man, but he wasn’t someone who was regularly sitting in the same bed as a billionaire celebrity. Especially when that bed was located inside a multi-billion dollar government project of a plane. Peter felt strange calling the quinjet a plane, it felt like too small a title for such an engine.

Tony handed Peter a glass, filled about a fourth of the way with amber liquid. He then poured himself a glass more than half full, and sat on the bed next to Peter.

“Cheers,” Tony clinked his glass with his. 

“Cheers,” Peter said belatedly, taking a sip. The liquid hit the back of his throat with a harsh bitterness, and he swallowed heavily. He knew he wouldn’t be drunk, almost nothing got him drunk anymore. There had been that one night - Jagermeister, sweet tarts, and the Rhino had been involved - but it had been a long time ago. 

“What are you really doing here?” Tony asked after a long sip of his own drink. “Not that I don’t expect you to want my company, but usually the only visitors I have after midnight are of the naked variety.”

Peter’s face flushed a bright red. 

“I do want your company, but not like that,” he blurted. At least, he didn’t _think_ like that.

“Oh?” Tony quickly became uncharacteristically monosyllabic, waiting for Peter’s inevitable response. 

“I want-” he stopped himself. “I can’t sleep.”

“As you said,” Tony remarked, but there wasn’t any venom in his words. He set his glass down on the bedside table, and gave Peter his full attention. 

“The - room, her, all of it, it’s in my head,” Peter spoke quickly, afraid something might get stuck in his throat at an unfortunate moment. He’s already cried once in front of Tony, and he doesn’t want to repeat the experience. 

Tony was silent, waiting patiently for Peter to continue.

“I guess, what I wanted to say was,” Peter coughed, glancing from his drink to Tony and back to his drink, “I had a nightmare. I wanted to see you.”

Tony was silent for a moment, mulling over Peter’s words. His posture was poised, and Peter could see the muscle tension in his shoulders. Tony was completely in control of himself, and was operating accordingly. 

“Stay here, Peter.” Tony shoved over in the bed, making space for Peter. He threw back a thick comforter and tossed a decorative pillow to the ground. “Stay here. You’ll sleep better.”

Peter didn’t move. This is not what he had expected.

“And if that doesn’t convince you, my excellent bedside manner will,” Tony promised, settling himself under the covers, as if to prove to Peter it was safe. 

“Tony, I,” Peter trailed off. There was no finishing the sentence.

“Listen, I understand the nightmares.”

Peter looked at him, unconvinced. 

“I do. I promise. Just stay here, I think it’ll help.” Tony patted Peter’s side of the bed, looking at him expectantly. “Look, I hate to say it, but I missed your annoying quipps too. Stay.”

_Stay_. 

“Okay,” Peter agreed, finally sliding into the bed, next to Tony. The comforter was warm and heavy, and felt like a well-designed hug. Peter could make out the design in the low light of the bedside lamp, flowers and stars embroidered. 

“I didn’t choose the bedspread, if you were wondering,” Tony said, looking at his bed from the pillow. When he turned his face back to Peter’s, the two were mere inches apart. 

“I wasn’t,” Peter responded. He knew Tony hadn’t chosen the bedspread, it didn’t seem like a choice Tony would have made. 

“If you have a nightmare, don’t be afraid to wake me up,” Tony said, flicking the bedside light off and throwing the room into darkness. “Or, you know, kick me in the middle of the night, whatever you choose, just don’t be afraid, okay?”

“Okay,” Peter promised. His eyes were growing heavy, and he already barely remembered the woman and the viral clip he had glimpsed on the television before he went to Tony’s room. 

“Goodnight, Peter Parker,” Tony said, turning over in the bed. “Please don’t hog the blankets.”

“Goodnight, Tony,” Peter said. He was glad that there were blankets to be hogged. 

Peter realized Tony didn’t know about the viral video yet, but he was falling asleep too quickly to want to tell him. This was nice, too nice, and he didn’t want to ruin it. The comforter, Tony’s breathing, _and,_ Peter thought, curling into a ball facing the opposite wall as Tony’s, _his hand is only inches away. He’s alive, and he’s right here._ _I’m alive too._


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Your kudos and comments this month have been the best Christmas (or non-denominational holiday) gift ever! Thank you all so much for the kind thoughts and also your patience! I hope you enjoy this chapter, I certainly had fun writing it. So dear reader, read on!

“Good morning. You slept like a rock,” Tony’s voice drifted above Peter, smooth and cocky even at this early hour. “But you don’t snore, which is nice. I’ve had snorers.”

“Is …” Peter sat up slowly, wiping the sleep out of his eyes, “Is snorers a word?”

“I’m the genius, Parker,” Tony said, fixing a barely awake Peter with a sharp look. He was already dressed, and looked as if an entire team of people had styled him. No sign of malnutrition or stress showed on his face or his suit, and his hair was combed and buzzed like it had been that first day Peter laid eyes on him. The only betrayals were the dark circles underneath Tony’s eyes, a deep purple that screamed sleep deprivation.

Slowly, Peter swung himself around and let his feet dangle off the edge of the bed.

“What time is it?”

“Oh, too early for you princess?”

Peter didn’t warrant that with a response.

“It’s a little after nine. Though you could have just looked at the clock,” Tony gestured to a sleek clock with no numbers, just the hands, ticking on the wall across from the bed.

“You should send that back,” Peter said, coughing slightly, “I think the numbers are missing.”

Tony laughed, and stood from the bed. “You might almost think you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, Parker.”

“Nah,” Peter said, patting the comforter underneath him, “This is the right side. You’re on the left.”

“Ouch. That one hurt to hear.”

Peter stood, and shrugged his shoulders. “They can’t all be winners.”

Tony gave him an appraising look. “Well, I think you’re feeling better, anyway.”

Peter couldn't argue with that, despite the darkness in corner of his vision and the weight on his chest that he couldn't make heads or tails of. He was fine, everything was fine. It was more fine than it had been in weeks, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

“Why aren’t we back yet?” Peter said, looking around the quinjet room. “We were only a couple hours away by car. We should definitely be back in the city by now.”

He tried to keep the agitation out of his voice as he spoke, but the pull of New York tugged at his very being. He had to be home. Spider-Man missed his city.

“We are back,” Tony said, tapping a button near the window that cleared the black-out curtains. A large gray toned hanger lay sprawled beneath their window. A few uniforms bustled about, wearing bright yellow vests. “I was just waiting for you to wake up.” Tony glanced at him. “I think that’s the first time you’ve slept next to me that I haven’t been worried about you living through the night.”

“Now it’s boring, I bet,” Peter said, still watching out the window. Where was the hanger? Could he get out before they asked for his blood again?

“That’s one way of putting it,” Tony said, joining Peter at the window. “Another word might be a goddamn _relief._ That was a lot of energy, being worried about you all the time.”

Peter’s skin crawled. “Well, you’re good now, thanks. Your duties are behind you. Worry-free, from now on.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Tony said, almost wistfully if it hadn’t been for the sardonic edge glinting the tips of his words. All his words. Peter was never quite sure if Tony was being sincere, not when they were in the bunker, not now when they were in the quiet quinjet.

“Time to come down, Mr. Stark,” a smooth woman’s voice suddenly cracked through the speakers, so clear it sounded like she could be standing in the corner with a megaphone rather than speaking through the sound system. “We’ve been waiting.”

“Oh, you guys’ were working on your patience? That _is_ surprising,” Tony said, grinning even though no one was there to see him. Peter marveled at the way his persona changed when the voice sounded through the hangers. His shoulders straightened, he donned a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was performing, a habit so ingrained in his person that it happened even when no one could see him.

“Just come down, Tony. And bring Mr. Parker with you.”

There was a click, and the woman signed off. Tony stayed standing for a moment, his shoulders beginning to curl over, before he took his seat next to Peter on the bed again.

“Do you think you’ll be alright?” Tony turned to Peter without a trace of the confident man who had been talking to the woman. He looked at Peter steadily, a hand on his shoulder. Peter felt his face grow warm.

“Peter?” He said, lowering his face to get a better look at Peter’s. “You will be alright, right? ‘Cause, by all means, we can sit in the quinjet for a while. I’m a big fan of pissing Fury off."

“I’m fine,” Peter said, meeting his eyes for just a moment.

“Alright then,” Tony said, standing from the bed, holding his hand out for Peter. “I guess we don’t have to piss him off today. There’s always time later.”

Peter bit the inside of his cheek, pressing his nails into the palm of his hand. He was back in New York, everything was _fine._

 _Fine._ What a shitty word. He couldn't stop thinking it. Everything was _fine._

“Can I have … I mean, do you have,” Peter glanced at Tony. “Do you have real clothes?”

“Real clothes?” Tony asked, doing a double take over Peter’s PJs. He was still wearing the pajamas the quinjet had given him the night before. Thin linen pants and a white t-shirt, both so light he barely felt them against his skin. Tony smirked.

“I’m sure we can figure out something.”

Peter gave half a smile, put his hand in Tony’s, and let himself be pulled up from the soft bed. Tony looked at him again, up and down, before nodding silently to himself.

“Oh, I suppose one of your Ph.D.’s was in fashion, then?” Peter said as he smiled to himself at how seriously Tony was taking this. “Just some jeans would be great, Tony.”

“Are you kidding me?” Tony said, his voice filtering out from behind some clothes in the huge closet behind the bed. The real estate Tony had in the quinjet - you’d think they were in his apartment, not in the _military_ _weapon_ that was the quinjet. “Here,” Tony said, reemerging with several hangers in his hands.

“What?” Peter said, staring at the dark clothes. “What?”

“It’s late September, Peter, layers are a _must_ ,” Tony said, keeping an impressively straight face as he handed Peter jeans, an expensive looking black coat and good sneakers that somehow went with the outfit.

“Keep the T-shirt, though,” Tony said appraisingly. “It fits you well.”

“Thanks,” Peter said, pulling the clothes on quickly. He stopped at the jeans for a split second, glancing to Tony.

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Peter,” Tony said, but his voice wasn’t teasing, it was sincere and slow, putting Peter at ease.

As quickly as he could, Peter stripped down the linen pants and pulled on the jeans, buttoning them with shaking fingers. He pulled the sneakers on quickly after that, turning slowly to Tony.

“Mr. Stark, do you need a reminder?” The woman’s voice filtered through the speakers again, slightly more on edge than before.

“Oh, give us a break, Hill,” Tony said, not taking his eyes off Peter. He waited for the click signifying she had left the microphone.

“See, Peter?” He said, nodding encouragingly. “It might not be Armani, but it’s not bad for short notice, right?”

“It’s late September?” Peter said slowly, finally realizing what Tony had said. “It was the middle of August before-”

“It’s okay, Pete,” Tony said quickly, cutting him off, stepping close to him. “Everything is okay now. We’re fine.”

 _Fine._ Peter hated that word.

“Yeah,” he agreed, forcing himself to give a grin he didn’t feel. “It’s all good. Besides, I love sweater weather. We missed out on the last couple days of heat in New York, so really, everyone else should be jealous of us.”

“At least the bunker was air-conditioned,” Peter continued lightly, determinedly _not_ thinking about all the shivering nights he spent in the crook of Tony’s arm, nearly blue from blood loss and chilled air. “And the rent was free.”

“Not free,” Tony’s voice was harsh. “It was _not_ free, Peter.”

“Mr. Stark!” The woman’s voice cracked into the room again. Peter zipped up his thin jacket halfway, and ran a hand through his hair. Tony swept his hand into his breast pocket and withdrew a pair of several hundred dollar sunglasses, and slid them up the bridge of his nose.

“Let’s go, Pete,” Tony said, pressing the button that slid the door open. He followed Peter down the corridor into the hanger below them. They walked down the ramp slowly. Peter stole glances around himself, to the men in the yellow vests that were milling about the hanger. Most of them were packing, and Peter couldn't help but glance at each of their holsters, counting silently. He turned his head, his heart hammering as the count of men began to reach dozens.

“Mr. Stark, Mr. Parker,” A woman with a low bun and a tight black suit approached them, a professional air about her. Her heels clicked just like the other woman’s had.

“Ah, Maria Hill,” Tony cracked a grin, spreading his hands. “Did you miss me?”

“Terribly,” she said matter-of-factly, the smallest smile on her face. “And, this is Peter Parker then?”

“This is him,” Peter said, sticking a hand out in front of him for her to shake. He really _really_ hoped it wasn’t clammy. Hill shook it, three times with a firm grip. “Thanks for joining us, Mr. Parker.  I hope you’ll find everything’s to your satisfaction.”

“I’ll let you know,” Peter said, shoving his hands back in his jacket pocket. The creeps with guns were continuing on with their business all around them, basically ignoring their little trio, but Peter could feel them at his back and around his peripheral vision as if they had blades on his skin.

“...So, follow me, both of you,” Hill’s voice faded back in as she gestured to fall in step behind her. Peter gave his head a tiny shake, trying to remind himself that the men around him were the good guys. Not a threat, despite what experience had taught him. But more than anything, it reminded him that he had to get out of here before they discovered who he truly was. Say what you will about terrifying torture chambers, but the lack of opportunity made it a lot easier to keep his identity a secret than being back in the real world.  

 _No_ , Peter realized, _not the real world. Tony’s world. The Avengers version of the real world._ That wasn’t such a real world at all.

***

The room Hill brought them both to seemed familiar to Tony, he was chatting with Hill as though he owned the halls of S.H.I.E.L.D’s most secure buildings, but not to Peter. It was a conference room, huge with the tallest ceilings Peter had seen in New York. There were enough chairs to seat over two dozen people, but as they entered the room, it became apparent the only people there were to be Peter, Tony, Bruce, and Fury.

Fury. Peter’s vision skipped over Fury as he scanned the room with his practiced eye, a small lance of fear striking through him. Not terror, perse, just fear. He was like the scariest teacher you had in elementary school. You were scared what he would do if you got in trouble as much as you were scared what he would do if you did something right. Peter hoped he wouldn’t make him get up in front of the whole class.

“Peter Parker, I take it,” Fury said as if he didn’t know full well who Peter Parker was, who his family had been, where he used to live, attend school, date, all of it. The only thing Peter was fairly certain they had no idea about was the fact that he’s Spider-Man.

“You took it correctly,” he said, stopping at the chairs opposite Bruce and Fury. Hill and Tony both took seats on either side of him, facing the two men. The rest of the table was uncomfortably empty. “That’s me. Peter Parker.”

“Still weird that your last name is Parker,” Tony said, stretching his arms up before leaning back in his seat comfortably. Peter wished he had an ounce of that undying confidence now.

“So,” Fury said, opening a file before them, “I assume you know why you were both called here.”

“Yep,” Tony said at the same time Peter nodded silently.

“Can you please recount, with detail, what happened?” Hill asked, sliding a device over to Bruce. “It’s alright. He’s here as a third party, Tony.”

“Ah,” Tony said tastefully, fixing Bruce with a glance. “The most dangerous insurance in the world.”

“He’s also the one who inspected both you and Peter upon your arrival,” Fury reminded them.

“I’m just here to make sure everything’s alright, Tony,” Bruce said quietly. He clicked a small button on the device.

“You’re going to record us?” Tony said, cocking an eyebrow. “Not that I don’t blame you, but god, look at the size of that thing. It’s nearly larger than your palm, Banner. Are you all still living in the 1990s?”

“Just tell us what happened,” Fury said.

Tony flashed a glance to Peter, his performance dropping for a split-second. Peter met his eyes desperately before fixing his gaze on the men in front of them once more, his hands clenched in fists, hidden in his lap.

“Well, what happened,” Tony began, musing. “A long tale, it might take up a while.”

“I assure you, we have time.”

“Well, I don’t,” Tony said matter-of-factly. “My time is worth more than yours, and I’ve already missed over a month of it. I’ve got some catching up to do.”

“ _After_ you debrief us, Mr. Stark,” Fury said simply, pushing the proclaimed 1980’s era device in the center of the table between the five of them. “And you, Mr. Parker. Start at the beginning.”

“Well,” Tony began, “In the very beginning, I did a stupid thing, and got all tangled up with S.H.I.E.L.D, for the rest of my goddamn life. I should have just stuck around in that cave after all,” he shrugged, and lowered his voice to a conspiratory whisper, “I bet they would have been happy to keep me around. I’d be running the place by now.”

“Are you regaling us with tales of your proposed terrorist exploits, Mr. Stark?” Hill asked sharply.

“Tony, please,” Bruce said softly, giving him a pleading look.

“I was walking late,” Peter interrupted suddenly. He had to get this over with. He had to.

“It was late, like I said. Probably two or three in the morning. I was somewhere in Queens. Tall buildings. I heard a call for help, so -” he stopped, and looked at Tony, who was staring at him with complete attention. He had never heard this before, Peter realized. They had only met after all this went down. Never in the month they were locked up did Peter talk about his life before. Not even the civilian side of it. “I heard a call for help,” he said again, forcing himself to look at Fury across the table, “So I went to see what it was. That’s when she took me.”

He didn’t tell them about them overpowering Spider-Man easily, he didn’t tell them about the dangerous glint in the woman’s eyes, he didn’t tell them about the terror that flew through his being.

“She?” Fury said, prompting.

“The woman,” Peter said, the words familiar poison on his tongue.  “The one who grabbed us, I mean. We never got her name.”

“Is this true, Tony?” Fury swiveled slightly, fixing Tony with a sharp look through his singular piercing eye. “One of the most powerful men in New York, and she never told you her name?”

“It’s not easy being ‘the most powerful man in New York’ when you’re confined to a cell miles underground,” Tony said with a flippant tone. “Besides, she knew who I was. She knew it would be more dangerous for her if I did know, being so powerful and all.” He gave Fury a sweet look, making doe eyes. “It’s so flattering, hearing those words from you.”

Fury ignored Tony and turned his gaze back to Peter.

“And she never told you her name either?”

“No,” Peter said, slightly more forcefully than he meant to. “She didn’t.”

“But you saw her face?” Bruce said, interrupting.

Her face. For a flash, those sharp eyes and blonde hair and tall heels were in Peter’s eyes, towering over him with a knife and cruelty, but he bit his tongue and willed the image away as quickly as he could. He could do this. He had to do this.

“Yes,” he said, controlling his voice carefully, keeping his gaze steady on the men across from him.

“So she didn’t expect you to escape,” Bruce said, glancing to Fury.

“She told me,” Tony interrupted, glancing a look to Peter before continuing, “She told me once that she planned on killing Peter once he had outlived his usefulness.”

Peter’s heart skipped a beat. He had to remind himself that everything was fine. _Fine._

“I didn’t want to tell you in there,” Tony said softly, one hand discreetly on Peter’s upper leg underneath the table, comforting him. Peter tethered himself to the warm fingers wrapped around his thigh. He continued.

“I woke up in a cell. Everything was gray.”

Tony gave his leg a squeeze.

“Tony - I mean, Mr. Stark, was there. Also in the cell, I mean.” Peter drew a long breath. “Neither of us knew why we were there. Then, she took me.”

“She took you? I thought she had already taken you,” Fury said, leaning forward on the table, folding his arms.

“Yes, I mean,” Peter shrunk in on himself slightly. “I mean, she took me from the cell. To- to the room. The other room. It was a big underground … labyrinth sort of place.” He cracked half a smile, not sure who he was trying to convince.

“And what did she do then?” Bruce asked, with a gentleness Fury didn’t have.

“She,” Peter’s voice was dry, the room was too large, too empty, too white. “She tested me.”

“Tested?” Fury asked. The brittle feeling in his voice was tangible. A wave of intensity flew over Peter..

“Hurt me.” Peter said, his voice so low one might have mistaken it for fear or cowardice, but Peter knew differently. It was rage, hot and boiling in the pit of his belly. She had hurt him. Taken him. Taken Tony. Planned to _kill_ him. All at once, several things became clear to him.

Tony’s hand was still on his leg, and he liked it.

Fury and Hill didn’t care about him, just about what he knew.

And he was going to murder her. He was going to find her and kill her.

_He was going to kill her._

With a voice much steadier and clearer than it had been, Peter cleared his throat and said,

“She would hurt me. Torture me.”

Tony’s hand clenched on his leg and his jaw tightened.

“Once I was on the brink, she would inject me with a healing property,” he lied easily, anger and power still coursing through his veins. “I would be fine by the next morning. Just a little worse for wear.”

“And that went on for a month?” Hill asked, her voice clinical.

“Yes,” Tony supplied before Peter could. “An entire goddamn month. And by the way, we got ourselves out. Nothing from S.H.I.E.L.D. Nothing from no one.”

“Tony, I’m sorry, we tried, I swear-” Bruce said, a pained look crossing his worn features.

Tony closed his eyes briefly, waving Bruce’s words away.

“It’s fine. It worked out in the end.”

Peter tried to temper the anger that had grown up in him. He still had to finish this debriefing, or whatever they were doing. And then, he could get out. He could run - for a moment, he thought of leaving Tony, how that would make him feel - but he shut the thought down. They couldn't be together anyway. It was better to get out now. Before he made things worse. Or before Tony got hurt again, because of him. And once he was out, he could find her.

He could kill her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, I kept accidentally typing Fury's name like "Furry" so that was a fun mistake. Reread the chapter with Furry speaking and not Fury, it's probably funnier.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm updating twice in two weeks, someone must have replaced me with a more productive clone. Thank you all for the positive feedback and comments, they mean the world to me! I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and the one I've got planned for a week or two from now ... it's gonna be angsty, get ready. Thanks for reading, and on with the show!

The rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D’s interrogation passed in a haze for Peter. One question after another, lies following lies in his answers. A couple were truthful.  _ Yes, he did escape with Tony in a car. No, he didn’t know the woman beforehand. _ Most, though, were not. _ Yes, he was a civilian. No, he wasn’t Spider-Man, friendly neighborhood illegal vigilante.  _

That hadn’t been a direct question of course, but Peter could still feel the magnifying glass being lowered in front of him as if he were going to burst in flames right in the conference room like ants on the sidewalk. Eventually, Peter found himself alone with Tony once more, but instead of being in their private room or deep underground, they were walking outside. There was sunlight, warming the chilly air around them. Peter resisted the urge to turn his face toward the rays that had been so absent for the last few weeks. Fury probably would have given him a weird look, and let’s be honest, too many weird looks from someone like Fury probably meant poison in your morning coffee or something equally lethal.

The last thing they brought up hadn’t been so easy to dismiss though. It wasn’t a question. It was a warning, of sorts.

“And, Tony,” Bruce said, as Fury and Hill were filing their papers back in the yellow folder, “there’s something I should talk to you about.” He grimaced. “And you, Peter.”

Peter blinked rapidly, glancing at Tony.

“It’s about a video.”

“A video?” Tony asked, furrowing his brow. 

“The video,” Peter breathed at the exact same time. He had completely forgotten.

Bruce looked at Peter, surprised. “You know about it?”

“I-” Peter thought back to that night, after his nightmares and before going to Tony’s room on the quinjet. “I saw it on the news.”

“What video?” Tony said, exasperated. “I’d like to be clued in here.”

“Apparently, some civilian took a video of you both when you were found in that hotel upstate.”

“ _ We _ called  _ you _ . We weren’t ‘found,’” Tony corrected. 

“It doesn’t matter. There’s a video going around of you and Peter … embracing. It’s got several million views.”

“Embracing?” Peter squeaked.

“How many views?” Tony asked.

“Seven hundred million,” said Bruce, “and change.”

“Wow,” Tony said, almost smiling. Peter bit his tongue. He didn’t want a video up on the internet for anyone to see - unless he was in his spandex, doing something really cool.  _ This  _ was not really cool. He had been crying in that video - crying. And he didn’t have his mask on. He was just plain old Peter Parker. 

“Why did you tell us?” Peter asked after a moment. “This isn’t … national security or anything. Why tell us, in the S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters?”

“Oh, this isn’t S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters, this is just the New York branch,” Hill cut in.

“But why?” Peter repeated.

“Just thought we should warn you,” Fury said ominously, as he and Hill exited the conference room. 

“Is everything he says scary?” Peter said, slightly lost. 

“It is when he says it,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “Come on Peter, we’ll get you checked out, once and for all.”

“No,” Peter said quickly, pushing his chair out from the table slightly. Ready to run. “No, I- I don’t need it.”

He wasn’t sure if he was more scared of the fact they might figure out he’s Spider-Man or the idea of submitting in a doctor’s office again.

“Peter, come on,” Tony said gently. “It’ll be fine.”

“ _ No,” _ he said, lowering his voice dangerously.

“Fine,” Bruce said, raising his hands in surrender. “Tony, we’ll be ready for you. Your car is already waiting. And by the way, we’ve all decided to stay at the Tower for a while. Just till everything settles down.”

“I guess I could stand the company,” he agreed.

“Your car?” Peter echoed as he watched Bruce walk out of the conference room. Only he and Tony remained.

“I assume Pepper sent someone down,” he said, shrugging. “I for one am ready to travel in style again. I’ve had enough of black SUVs and sky-high quinjets. I want to feel the engine.”

Peter could feel the engine of the quinjet, hell, he could feel the electricity of the building they were in, but that was neither here nor there.

“Right,” he said, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to say next. “Could you ... could you drop me off? I don’t-- I don’t have money for a cab.”

“Drop you off?” For the first time that Peter could think of, Tony sounded genuinely surprised. Not furious, like with the woman, or impish, like with anyone else. He was, simply, surprised. 

“Yeah,” Peter said, glancing at the floor. He had to get out of here. That video was one thing, the fact that he was Spider-Man was another, and the feelings itching under his skin, both of them, scared him to death. He had to kill that woman. He couldn't rest until he did. She would always be out there, waiting for him, for Tony. For Spider-Man. The other feeling … that was harder to put a finger on, even a Spider-Finger. But Peter had an inkling that if he separated himself from Tony it might go away. Or at least dissipate. Or something. He needed  _ something _ .

“20 Ingram St, Forest Hills. In Queens,” Peter said, rattling off May’s old address without thinking. He wasn’t sure why he said it, wasn’t even sure if he had meant to, but that’s what slipped out. He wanted to be somewhere he felt safe.

“In Queens?” Tony said weakly. “I just assumed…” He scoffed and waved a hand. “I don’t know. Of course, you can be dropped off wherever you like.”

“Thanks, Tony,” Peter said softly, not quite trusting his voice.

“Anytime, Peter,” Tony said stiffly. He wasn’t looking at Peter.

“So, come on then,” Tony said, standing. “I can afford to waste the gas, but not my time, so let’s go.”

Peter stood wordlessly and followed him out. 

***

As soon as they stepped out onto the street, Peter wanted to run back in the S.H.I.E.L.D building and not come out for a hundred years.

“Tony! Mr. Stark! Where were you held! Who’s your new friend!”

“Mr. Stark, so glad to see you’re alright, can you tell us anything about what it was like?” Another reporter chimed in. There were dozens and dozens of them, lining the sidewalk and street right outside the building. The noise nearly drove Peter back.

“Mr. Stark, care to comment on the viral video of you and this young man?” A mic was shoved beneath Peter’s face and he moved out of the way as quickly as he could.

“Mr. Stark, is he your new lover?” A voice called out from the din of reporters and flash photos going off. 

“Hey!” Tony hollered. “I’ve had a very long month, and I’d appreciate it if you’d all back off!”

“Mr. Stark,” a young man holding a mic and a small camera shoved his way to the front, “About that viral video, why were you both crying? Who’s your friend? Was he in captivity with you?”

Tony gave him a smile, stopping cold. “Was he in captivity-” without warning, he reached forward and grabbed the cell before smashing it under his foot. 

“That’s all the questions I’ll be taking, today, thanks!”

He hunkered down and made his way to the car with Peter hot on his heels as the reporters began clamoring even louder, falling over one another to get a good look at the two of them. 

“Nice to see you, Tony,” Natasha said, tilting her head back from the driver's seat. “I hope you don’t mind, I chose the car.”

She revved the engine of the sleek black Audi. Peter couldn't even begin to guess which model it was. 

“Not at all,” Tony said, stepping into the passenger’s side with ease. His shoulders were relaxed, his voice was easy. He was at home here, now. On the other hand, Peter felt as though he belonged in that woman’s underground compound more than this however-many-million dollars car. He slid into the backseat as easily as he could. This was not a car designed for multiple inhabitants.

“Hi again, Peter,” Natasha said, waving in the rearview mirror. 

“Hi, Black Widow,” Peter echoed back, wincing as soon as he said it.

“I like that,” Natasha said. “You all should call me Black Widow more often.”

“Only if you want to call me Iron Man,” Tony said, leaning back in the seat. Peter sat on the edge of his seat, trying to keep up.

“Uh, Tony?” He said after a minute. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, sorry, Peter,” Tony said, sounding uncomfortable. “Tasha, we have to drop Peter off. 20 Ingram street. In Queens.”

Natasha swerved on the New York street and turned the car around at once. Peter was mildly impressed. Usually, only the taxis had New York memorized that clearly.

“Why isn’t he coming back to the Tower with us?” Natasha asked Tony. Tony only shrugged. She tried again. “Why aren’t you coming back to the Tower with us, Peter?”

“Uh-” Peter started, unprepared. He really didn’t want to blurt out:  _ because I’m Spider-Man and maybe planning a murder. And also I think I’m into Tony Stark. _

“I’ve got to get to work,” he said lamely, finally. Natasha burst out laughing. Tony was silent.

“Where do you work?” She asked, taking turns as if she owned the street. 

“Uh-” Peter said again, racking his brain. “I’m a - a photographer, for the Daily Bugle.”

“And you’ve got to go take some pictures?” Tony asked, slightly incredulous. “You don’t get any time off for what you just went through?”

Natasha’s piercing eyes bore him down in the rearview mirror as if she knew exactly what had been happening to Peter for the last month. Peter did his best not to shrivel from her gaze.

“No, not really,” Peter said with a small laugh he hoped sounded genuine.  _ Finding supervillains before the law did didn’t allow for much vacation. _

A month and a half ago, a free visit to the Tower would have been a dream come true. But now, he pushed himself away from it and from Tony. It was for the greater good, he decided. It’d be better for him. Better for Tony, too. He could handle it. He’d have to handle it. There was no other choice. 

“Here,” Peter said, realizing he was home. Or what used to be home. The street was quiet, the afternoon was lazy. Someone else’s car sat in his Aunt’s driveway. The money from the house had only lasted six months. Peter couldn't have afforded to hold onto it. 

“Thanks, Tony,” he said, slowly stepping out of the car. 

“Peter, wait,” Tony said, suddenly jumping out of his side of the car. Natasha waited patiently from within the car, watching the two of them as if she could hear every word.

“Tony, please,” he said, his voice cracking slightly. He had to get out of here, why was Tony making it so goddamn difficult?

“Peter, you don’t have to run away, if that’s what you’re doing, we can figure this out. I can foot your hospital bills, I can pay for - for therapy, or whatever you need, just don’t-”

“I’m not running away,” Peter said sharply, turning back from the now-foreign driveway to Tony. “I just-” His voice cracked again. “I can’t do this.”

“Do this?” Tony said, stepping closer. “I’ve spent every single day of the last month with you, Parker, and I  _ still  _ don’t want to get rid of you. That’s saying something.”

“Thanks, Tony, but…”

“Peter, please, come back to the Tower,” Tony said quietly, reaching out a hand. 

A light went on in his old house. Peter flinched. 

“I can’t, Tony.”

“Why not?” 

“It’s not the place for me. I can’t be there … I can’t be around  _ you  _ all the time.”

Tony’s face fell for a moment before hardening. “Can’t be around me, huh?”

“Not like that,” Peter said desperately, wishing they were somewhere a little more private. “I just- you make me  _ feel _ , Tony.”

Peter’s breath was loud in his ears, he could feel it rise and fall in his chest, just as much as he could he feel the heat on his cheeks as he continued. “I can’t stop it, you’re just… you’re so  _ big _ . I’m blinded by you. You-” His voice broke off as he caught himself about to cry.  _ Not again. _

“I just can’t,” Peter said, finally, his voice as quiet as the street around them.

Tony dropped his hand to his side. “You can’t.”

“I can’t,” Peter said, unable to stop the catch in his breath. “I can’t.”

“Well, I’ll take my cue, then,” Tony said. Peter watched as he became a different person before his eyes. The confidence was back. The performance was back. “See you around, Peter Parker.”

Peter said nothing. He was afraid he’d tell Tony to stop. Afraid he’d  _ make  _ him stop. And then, Tony was gone. The car sped off. Peter watched it drive away until he couldn't see it anymore.  _ I can’t, _ he thought.  _ What a coward. _

***

“Care to tell me what that was all about, Tony?” Natasha said as they worked their way back toward Midtown.

“Not really,” Tony said lightly, flipping out his phone. 

“‘Cause it certainly looked … intimate,” Natasha continued, keeping her eyes on the road.

“Just talking,” Tony said, not looking up from his phone. “Just wanted to make sure he’d be alright.”

“Sure,” Natasha said, “Cause you’re famous for being really concerned about how other people are feeling.”

Tony put down his phone and turned to Natasha with raised brows. “Do I sense some sarcasm?”

She shrugged but gave Tony a knowing look.

“He’ll be fine,” Tony said, waving a hand. “Nothing to worry about.”

“If you say so.”

“I don’t usually have to say things twice.”

“Speaking of,” Natasha said, taking a sharp right, “we’ve got to talk.”

“We’re talking right now,” Tony said, pulling his phone out again, groaning at all the messages. “God, can’t a man get kidnapped in peace?”

“We found the compound,” Natasha continued. “There’s a lot there. But not the woman you were talking about.”

Tony raised his eyebrows at her, but not surprised. “You were listening to our interrogation?”

“Please, that wasn’t an interrogation. And I also saw you with Peter, during it.” This time, she fixed him with a sharp look, even while keeping the car steady. “You like him. You really like him.”

“You said you found the compound?” Tony asked, as if he hadn’t heard her. “I assumed you would. I’d be worried my taxes were being put to waste if you all couldn't find a giant underground building that I basically led you to.”

“Let’s talk upstairs, with everyone,” Natasha said, deftly pulling the car into the edge of the street where a hidden lane led the car up to Tony’s private garage underneath the Tower. They were home. 

Tony gripped the edge of his seatbelt. He wished Peter had come with him. He wanted to share this with him. The feeling of safety. His home.

“I could kill for a good steak,” Tony said, slamming the car door behind him as he stepped out. Natasha spun the keys on her finger. “Or even a mediocre steak. A meal that’s not airplane food or prison food sounds pretty good right now.”

“We ordered pizza for everyone,” she said as she pressed the button on the express elevator. 

Tony fixed the collar on his suit as he and Natasha stepped into the spacious elevator. 

“Everyone?”

“Yeah, Tony,” she said, glancing at him. “We’re all here.”

“Am I wrong or is there a hint of sentimentality in your voice, Natasha?” Tony said.

“You tell me, Stark,” she said, back to her old self just as the elevator opened up on the eighty-third floor. 

“Surprise!” 

A chorus of voices exploded as Tony stepped out into the common area. Steve, Sam, Bruce, Wanda, Vision, and Clint were all there, wearing ridiculous Iron Man themed party hats.

“Did you all ruin my nice living room just for this party?” Tony said, waving hand around at the haphazard streamers littering the modern common area. Clint just shrugged, and gave him a mischievous look. 

“Next time I get kidnapped, I’m having someone else plan my welcome home party,” Tony said, looking pointedly at the cake in the center of the room that had the words  _ We’re glad you lived  _ written in cursive icing across it.

“We’re glad you’re home, man,” Sam said, raising a beer. 

“I tried to get them to change the words, Tony,” Steve said, handing him a beer. 

“These ones are growing on me,” Tony said, taking the cold beverage. The cap was already off.

“Are you surprised?” Clint said, clinking his beer with Tony’s. 

“Not at all,” Tony said. “You guys need to work harder on your surprises.”

“We can take down an alien army,” said Bruce, “but we can’t plan surprise parties. I think I’ll take the loss.”

“Cake?” Wanda asked, handing Tony the first slice.

“I’ve been on a diet for a month,” he said, taking the cake. “I can afford a few carbs.”

Steve rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“Where’s Peter?” Bruce asked, looking around. “I thought you’d want him with you, at least until everything settled.”

“Peter-”

“Peter had to go,” Natasha swept in without missing a beat. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing him around.”

No one pressed the issue. Tony enjoyed the cake, the pizza, and the beers almost as much as the company but one nagging feeling wouldn’t leave him alone. Peter. Peter wouldn’t leave him alone. The little smile, the unwavering confidence in the face of certain terror, the stupid, stupid jokes. His curls, always falling in his face. Brown eyes as big as saucers. The way he looked at Tony. The way he curled against Tony to sleep. Because Peter was gone. He was off, only a dozen miles away, but completely gone. Tony wasn’t blinded by Peter. No, not at all. With Peter, he could see. The world was a little brighter, even in the compound. Without Peter, everything looked fake. Everything looked dim.

Tony shook his head. Peter wasn’t here. That was his choice. Everyone else was here, and that had to be enough. He finished the last of his beer off in one long swig before turning back to the party.

“Who wants to play pin the tail on the Hulk?” Tony said, acting as he always did. Completely and utterly fine. 


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to save this chapter for a week or two from now, but I just couldn't wait to post! So, enjoy a rare sighting when I'm posting more than once a month! Big things are happening ... 
> 
> So thanks for reading and commenting! Peter and Tony (and me) are really grateful.

After Tony and Natasha had driven off, and Peter stopped crying, he went to the closest alley he could think of. He knew every inch of the Forest Hills just as well as the rest of New York, so basically, by heart. He had to think about what he was going to do. The alley was dim, but he could see just fine. Spiders can see in the dark, even if they’ve only got two eyes. He tried to think rationally. Assets: Good sneakers from Tony. Spider abilities. Charming good looks? Liabilities: No Spider-Suit. Maybe some form of PTSD that he refused to think about. And no Tony. 

He rolled his head around his shoulders, cracking his neck. He had to stop thinking about that. About him. He was worried the tears would return. 

He still had friends. Even if he was sometimes worried they might murder him in the night. Maybe he could ask about getting a new Spider-Suit. And what had been happening in the city for the past month. And, if he was being honest, to talk. To have a conversation with someone that wasn’t Tony. Just to prove he still could. He had barely held it together back in the S.H.I.E.L.D building. He  _ wasn’t  _ broken. He couldn't be. 

Hauling himself to his feet, Peter began to make his way to Hell’s Kitchen. It’d probably take a while without his web shooters. 

***

“Tony?” A soft voice carried from the edge of the large living room. When nothing happened, Natasha knocked on the wall, and said again, “Tony?”

“Here,” he said from the couch, raising a glass with his back to her. Everyone else had already gone to bed. When they did, he broke out the strong stuff. He was several glasses deep in a bottle of Macallan. If he remembered right, it had cost him upwards of twenty-five thousand dollars. He took another sip, relishing the sharp burn. It had been money well-spent.

“Tony, there you are.” Natasha took a seat next to him on the couch, delicately tucking her legs underneath her. She had one of the Stark laptops underneath an arm. “We have to talk. About Peter.”

“About Peter?” Tony asked, looking at her. “What about him?”

“Are you sober enough to handle this?” Natasha said without skipping a beat, placing the laptop down on the glass coffee table between them. “You need to be able to handle this.”

He placed the bottle on the table next to the laptop. “I’m sober enough to handle it.” 

She flipped up the laptop screen and typed in a password silently. Tony watched as she went through files before queueing up a list of videos, probably around thirty. There were no thumbnails.

“What’s all this?” He asked, resisting the urge to pick his bottle up again.

“It’s Peter,” Natasha said.

“So you’ve said. But I still don’t understand.”

“Remember when I told you we found a lot of evidence when we finally got into the compound?”

“Yes, and?”

“This is the most damning stuff. And I think you’ve got to see it.” Natasha pushing the laptop his way, with the mouse hovering over the ‘play’ button.

“Why do I have to see it?” Tony asked, looking at her over the computer. “I was there.  I don’t have to be convinced.”

“Just watch it, Tony. Peter … well Peter isn’t who he says he is.”

_ Peter. _ Tony’s fingers stilled above the trackpad, hesitant. He was a gossip, everyone on both coasts knew that. He liked knowing everything about everyone.  _ Then why did this feel like an invasion of privacy? _ One he couldn't walk away from?

“Tony,” Natasha said firmly. “You’ve got to watch it.” 

With that, she stood, giving Tony one firm pat on the shoulder. “We’ll still be here in the morning.”

Tony said nothing. The screen was dark. He waited for Natasha to leave, and then for the sound of the footsteps to completely disappear, and then he was finally out of excuses.

“Sir?” JARVIS spoke up suddenly, causing Tony to startle. “I recommend watching it.”

“Thanks for your input,” Tony said, recovering. “I’ll make sure to deactivate you next time.”

“Sir,” JARVIS said as curtly as house-robot-butlers could.

Natasha had made it clear enough. The only choice was to press play. But Tony couldn't. Shuddering for reasons he couldn't understand, he closed the lid of the laptop. 

***

“Daredevil?” Peter said, just above room level, from the top of the roof. “Daredevil? It’s your favorite friendly neighborhood Spider-Man? I’m-”

“You’re pretty far from your neighborhood, Spider-Man.”

The low voice came from behind him, making Peter jump. He didn’t like surprises, not before and certainly not anymore. 

“Hey, Daredevil,” Peter said, pulling his sweatshirt down further.

“Where’s your suit?” The vigilante remained far from Peter’s position at the edge of the roof. 

“Funny story,” Peter said, wishing he could ever be as intimidating as Daredevil, “A supervillain took it. I think. And my web shooters.”

“So that stuff doesn’t come out of you?” Daredevil asked. 

“No,” Peter said, slightly disgusted by the idea. “It’s just a chemical compound, it’s kinda simple, actually, but-”

“Take a breath. I haven’t seen you around in a while,” Daredevil said, almost as if he were amused. Peter wondered if Daredevil had the emotional capacity to be amused. His states usually oscillated between angry and angrier and often righteously angry. 

“Yeah, well, it’s that same supervillain’s fault again,” Peter said, kicking a stone from the top of the roof. He watched it’s trajectory with super-human eyes as it sailed toward the ground, hundreds of feet away.

“Sit down, kid,” Daredevil said, silently making his way toward the edge of the roof. He sat, patting the stone for Peter to join him. Slowly, Peter sank into a sitting position next to him, careful not to look at him right in the face. “You want to explain what’s going on here?”

“Not really,” Peter said, a little more petulantly than he meant to. He sighed, trying to collect himself before continuing. “I’m down a suit, and I was wondering if you could help me. That's all.”

“I can help you, but I want you to tell me what’s going on. You haven’t been around for months, Spider-Man.”

“It’s Peter,” he blurted suddenly. 

Daredevil was silent. Stock-still.

“Not that,” Peter ran a hand through his hair, silently cursing himself and his stupid, stupid, impulsivity. “Not that you have to tell me your identity or anything,” he said, “But I just want to say … It’s Peter.”

“Peter, then,” Daredevil said, sounding even more confused. “Where have you been, Peter?”

“Upstate,” he said in a clipped voice. “I was preoccupied. That’s where I lost my suit. And my web shooters. And basically everything.”

“Everything?” Daredevil repeated, tilting his head unnervingly toward Peter.

“Everything,” Peter said. “And I don’t have money for new materials.”

“If you need money-”

“No,” Peter said quickly, “no I’m not looking for charity. I just wondered if you knew someone who could help me out. I’m guessing you didn’t sew that number yourself.” He gestured to the deep purple suit Daredevil wore.

“Sure, Peter,” he said finally. 

“I can build it myself,” Peter promised, “Especially the web shooters and the fluid, but the suit-”

“Don’t worry, Peter,” Daredevil promised. “We’ll get you a new suit. You’ll be back in the field in no time.”

_ In the field. _ He hadn’t done Spider-Man business since the night he was taken. Over a month ago. No patrols, no green goblin, not even any muggings. Just the concrete and that woman. Peter shuddered, and couldn't stop a tiny hitch in his breath; he couldn't control his breathing.  _ He had to control his breathing _ . What was happening?

The night was dark, just like it was the first time, it was all the same, it couldn't be the same, it couldn't, oh God.

Daredevil’s hand on his shoulder threw him off, he jumped a foot in the air, scrambling back. 

“Don’t,” he choked, throwing a hand up in defense. The hand could be holding a knife, a screw, an electrode, anything.  _ It  _ was in control. Peter had to get away, he had to, before it all happened again, it was happening again, _ it was happening _ , he couldn't breathe.

“Peter!” Daredevil hollered his real name, holding both sides of Peter’s shoulders, shaking lightly. “Peter, come on.”

Slowly, Peter’s vision blinked back to reveal a heavily masked man mere inches from Peter’s face, concern etched over the half Peter could see. His breathing slowed, bit by bit, until he was heaving long shuddering breaths, each rattling his rib cage.  _ He was fine, _ he reminded himself, biting the inside of his cheek to keep him grounded.  _ He was home. He was in New York. _

But  _ she  _ was still out there. Peter tried very hard and very unsuccessfully not to think about it.

“Your heart is going a mile a minute,” Daredevil said, still holding onto Peter. “Peter … you had a panic attack.”

“Funny how things happen, isn’t it?” Peter said, trying to make his ragged voice as light as possible.  _ He had to get a grip, right now. _

“No, Peter, it’s not,” Daredevil’s voice was final. “You need help. What happened to you?”

“Nothing ‘happened to me,’” Peter said hotly, taking a step back. “I’m fine. I just need the name of your suit guy. Which sounds like I’m going to get a nice tailored suit, maybe with some oxfords, but I mean the superhero suit guy. You know, for my missing suit. My missing superhero suit, not my missing tuxedo suit.”

“Peter, you’re rambling,” Daredevil said, pulling him in a sitting position again. “Relax.”

“I’m fine,” he said, but his voice betrayed him, breaking as he spoke. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” Daredevil said haltingly, turning his head toward Peter, “My name is Matt.”

Peter said nothing for a moment until,

“Hey, we’re both apostles.”

Matt almost laughed at that. “Yeah, Peter. We are.”

“We’re superheroes, you’d think we’d do a better job of stopping Judas, right?”

“I’m not sure that’s how it worked-” Daredevil started, but broke off. Peter was staring out over the city, leaning into the open air. 

“You’ve got Superhuman healing, right?” Matt asked.

“Yeah,” Peter said, swinging his legs over the side of the building. “Yeah, I do.” His voice was bitter. 

“Just making sure,” Daredevil said as he watched Peter get closer and closer to the edge of the roof. 

***

_ “This viral clip, still racking up views, makes headlines again as Tony Stark and the mystery man in the video have been seen together, exiting the New York S.H.I.E.L.D establishment. Even bigger news, we’re being told the identity of the mystery man is Peter Parker, a prodigy college drop-out student. More, after this.” _

Tony watched as the TV began advertising something he could buy the company of. He tried not to worry about what it meant that Peter’s identity was in the public eye. He tried not to think about how it was mostly his fault that it was happening at all. He had turned on the news in an effort to catch up on the last month, but now, he wasn’t sure if that had been such a good idea. The laptop still sat, asleep, on the coffee table next to him. Tony tore his gaze away from the closed laptop as the newscaster appeared back on screen, impeccable as ever.

_ “In other news, Spider-Man is still missing from New York streets. With us is Officer Barkley, who has a few comments on the situation.” _

_ “Officer Barkley, thanks for joining us.”  _ The camera swiveled to include both the officer and the newscaster. 

_ “What do you and your forces have to say about Spider-Man’s disappearance?” _

_ “Well, thanks for having me, Melissa. Spider-Man may have had good intentions, but he’s never had legal standing on our streets, so we’re glad to see him sticking to a more civilian side of things. _

_ “Right,”  _ The newscaster said, checking her notes.  _ “What do you have to say about the now forty percent increase in petty theft, robbery, and personal harm in the Queens borough, and almost a twenty percent increase everywhere else?” _

The man coughed and glanced at the camera as if to check for answers. 

_ “We understand how things look,”  _ he said,  _ “But it’s being handled. Everything will settle down as soon the power vacuum has dissipated. That’s the problem with superheroes and vigilantes. They walk in, thinking they can single-handedly take care of any problem, but what they lack is finesse and a legal system. This is what happens when a superhero disappears.” _

Tony flicked the TV off. He didn’t want to hear anymore. Whatever Officer Barkley had to say wouldn’t matter the next time New York was under alien attack and he had to go and save his ass.

“Sir,” JARVIS said for the second time that night. “I do believe you should watch that. Now, especially.”

“Have you already seen it?” Tony said, unable to keep the grumble out of his voice.

“I’m an AI, sir,” JARVIS said as if that would make Tony feel any better. He opened the laptop gingerly, his finger hovering on the trackpad above the play button. He took a deep breath, and pressed, waiting for the click. And then, the video began. 

***

His suit would be ready in a week. Peter wasn’t sure he had the capacity to wait that long. Daredevil -  _ Matt  _ \- promised to keep an eye out for him. Peter refused to tell him why, mostly because he didn’t want to have another panic attack, but he made Matt promise to keep an eye out. For him. For  _ her _ . For whatever. It made him feel better. Sort of. 

Climbing to the top of his new abandoned building turned out to be a lot more of a workout without his web shooters than he had anticipated. His left leg ached and shook with phantom pains where the bone had broken by the time he had reached the top few floors and pushed himself through one of the broken windows. He tried to ignore it. He didn’t have enough money for web fluid, let alone an X-Ray. Sitting up on the floor, away from it all, Peter found himself wishing for the pillow and blanket he had before he was taken. He’s been homeless before. But never this bad.

He had nothing to fall back on. Nothing of his old home. Nothing of his aunt. 

The consolation prize, Peter reasoned to himself, was the view. No one else in the city had this sort of view for free. This was New York, as seen only by Spider-Man, even if he was missing his suit and web shooters. Peter thought that with all the shit he put up with, he deserved at least that. Though, it didn’t change the fact he was starving. He hated to admit it, but he had eaten better in the compound than he was now. 

God, he was pathetic. He had to get a grip, he was  _ free _ . She was gone, and she would be gone for good as soon as Peter took care of business. 

He wasn’t gonna sit around and feel sorry for himself. If May could see him now … she was probably complaining and throwing the afterlife equivalent of pebbles down at him from heaven. 

Peter was the closest to smiling he’d been since the last time he’d seen Tony, thinking about it. He’d make do. He always made do. It was time to work.

***

It was a room Tony had never seen before. The walls were the same grey as the rest  of the compound’s had been. There was chair, like a medical chair or a dentist’s chair, in the middle of the room. A grate underneath that, along with several chests and medical tools surrounding the chair told Tony one thing: he wasn’t going to like what came next.

_ “Peter Parker, age 22, graduated Midtown High, attended Bronx College until the death of your aunt in freshman year.” _ The voice, that unmistakable voice, filtered through his laptop speakers. Nobody was on screen yet. There was a pause, and then,  _  “Needless to say, we know who you are. We’ve been waiting a long time for you.” _

_ How did they know his true name? And why didn’t Peter tell me? And a long time? What had they been waiting for?  _ Tony’s couldn't tear his eyes away.

And then, she appeared on screen, walking in from the hallway and directing a new person toward the room. Peter. Tony’s breathing slowed, and he leaned closer to the screen. 

_ “Well?” _ The woman in the video asked, looking around the room.  _ “How does it look?” _

And then, it all became crystal clear as Peter spoke.

_ “I’d rather be at the dentist’s. And that’s saying something, because I haven’t been to the dentists in years.” _

Tony nearly broke when Peter’s voice came through his small speakers. A joke. A goddamn joke. He could tell past-Peter was scared, terrified even, but the joke still landed. A goddamn joke.

He kept watching.

_ “So where’s your name tag? You know, ‘Hello My Name Is… _ ” Peter kept talking like it was his job to fill the silence. Tony couldn't move. He could barely breathe. This was the first video of nearly thirty. And this one was six hours long. He wasn’t sure he could handle that.

And then she picked up a knife. Tony gripped the edge of the couch between tight fingers, unable to tear his gaze away.

“ _ And what are you planning on doing with that?” _ Peter’s voice was wavering, even in the subpar recording. Tony’s heart constricted.

_ “ _ _ “You’ve got a fantastic healing ability. I’d go so far as to call it miraculous even. I’ve watched videos where you take two, three, four bullets, and you’re out on patrol again the next day.” _ She clicked her tongue, dragging the knife along Peter’s lower arm, her voice sickly and crooning _. “Imagine what your blood, your healing ability could do for the world? Heal every sickness, end every disease? That’s the work of a true hero.” _

If Tony hadn’t had complete self-reliance, he wouldn’t have been sure what he had just heard. Peter had a healing ability?  _ Peter? _ It wasn’t a test, it wasn’t dumb luck. Peter had been targeted, from day one. 

_ “An alive Spider-Man is worth more than two dead in the  bushes, you know.”  _ Came Peter’s slightly panicked voice. Tony cracked the wire in the edge of the couch cushion he was gripping.

_ Spider-Man. _

_ Peter was Spider-Man. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed! Also, I've been meaning to do this, but if anyone wants to hit me up on twitter, i'm @/paperwithpages, see ya there!


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long wait but also this is my longest chapter to date, so ... forgiveness???  
> But seriously, thank you guys for sticking with me! The last month (or two...) has been SO HECTIC, but here is an update! Finally!  
> I hope you enjoy because poor Peter and Tony definitely are not having fun. 
> 
> I love reading your comments! Thanks to everyone who leaves comments or kudos, it means so much! And now dear readers, read on!

Tony hadn’t moved in six hours except once, to go to the bathroom and throw up. And he had only watched one video. But he had seen the entire thing. Their first day at the compound. Peter’s first day with the woman. If Tony was being honest with himself, he had forgotten Peter had that much muscle to him in the beginning. The last time he had seen Peter, his clothes hung looser, his eyes were darker, and his voice was rough. The video Tony watched was _before._ Peter now… is _after._ And he was gone. And he was Spider-Man.

Tony wasn’t going to pretend; he didn’t like Spider-Man. He was a cocky little shit, as far as he was concerned. And hell, Tony should know. Spider-Man and his street-level villains, those corny one-liners, and never once agreeing to be on the right side of the law, none of that added up to the sheer force of nature that was Peter. His stupid shaggy hair, and his eyes, so deep, Tony could get lost in them for hours,  _that_ was Peter.

All at once, Tony realized he had worked with Spider-Man before. They all had, at one time or another. He was pretty sure Steve had even offered the little guy a place on the Avengers at one point.

As much as he tried, Tony could not put Peter Parker next to Spider-Man.

“Tony?”

Slowly, he raised his head as Natasha came into the living room.

“Did you get any sleep? ‘Cause I sure didn’t,” Tony said, but his throat was raw and his voice came out scratchy.

“You watched it?”

“Yes, I fucking watched it,” Tony snapped, twisting around to look at her.

She just cocked one eyebrow.

He ran a hand over his face and slumped back on the couch. “Sorry. It’s just … It’s been a long night.”

Natasha walked to the couch and sat next to Tony, putting her arm over his shoulder. “I know.”

“And you know who he is?”

Another long breath.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Natasha said.

“Don’t apologize. I don’t even know why you would. I don’t - I just don’t know,” Tony fell forward, his face cupped in his hands. “I don’t know at all.”

“Your several PhDs would probably have something to say about that,” she said lightly, looking at him carefully.

“How did I not know?” Tony asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “I was with him the whole time, how did I not know?”

“How could you?” she said, giving his shoulder a reassuring rub. “If he didn’t want to tell you, you’d never know.”

“No, not that,” Tony said, raising his gaze from the ground to fix Natasha with a wretched stare. “How did I not know how much he suffered?”

Natasha blinked twice. “Tony?”

“Every goddamn day, I watched him get carted out, and brought back, bloody and God knows what else. I knew it was bad. I knew he was hurting. But I didn’t understand. Not fully.”

“It’s not your fault, Tony, come on.”

“He didn’t just … get experimented on, or fucking tested, Natasha. He was tortured. Everyday.”

Tony let out a sharp, breathless laugh. “And I just dressed up his wounds and called it good! He’s - he’s Spider-Man, and he was tortured, and I thought, God, I thought I could make things better.”

_I was a fool._

 

***

She was in a particularly bad mood today, Peter could tell. He had had enough experience by now. She was more cruel than usual, pressing down into his flesh more like a butcher than a scientist. An angry butcher, who was very hungry, for Peter specifically.

Her face, covered in a sheen of sweat, bore down at Peter, teeth bared as she twisted the knife. Peter only looked down at the hilt, buried into his stomach. He couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything except fear. It burned in his veins, like pain, but almost worse. There was no dissipation, no healing factor swooping in to save the day. It was this and only this, forever.

“Feel this, Parker?” The woman, blonde ponytail flicking, withdrew her knife with a flourish. He did not feel it, but terror spiked in his heart, and he screwed his eyes shut against the image of a knife coated in his blood clenched between her thin fingers.

As long as it went on, and long did it go on, the fear never left. The only thing Peter could feel in that torture chamber was the fear, and the way it embedded itself under the skin, like dirt underneath his fingernails. Nothing he did could wash it out. Her voice was twisted and dark, the room swam before Peter’s vision, and the _fear_ , the pounding, neverending, relentless terror, brewed up in his chest. His personal torture chamber faded into nothingness, her voice became a mere echo, but the goddamn fear stuck in him.

And then he lurched up, gasping from the ground. He scrambled to his feet, still half asleep, clutching his stomach. He ran to the edge of the skyscraper, feet fumbling underneath him with uneven scuffs. As soon as he reached the edge, he gripped the cement lining, desperately swallowing the bile in his throat, but it was no use, he coughed, his lungs seeming to collapse in on themselves as he emptied what little had been in his stomach onto the streets below.

His throat burned, and for once, he was grateful for the sensation. It wasn’t fear. Or the cold. Fall in New York was considerably colder on the roof of a skyscraper than underground. He had to stop this. Stop dreaming. Stop freaking out. He was Spider-Man, wasn’t he? He was still Spider-Man. He could stop muggings, save bicycles, help little old ladies cross the street _without_ losing it.

Shakily, he turned and slid to the ground against the low lining of the roof. Blowing out a long breath, he let his head fall back. There weren’t any stars out, it was too polluted for that, but Peter was almost glad. The pollution was proof of other people, _so many other people._ He was far from that isolated underground system now.

Just so long as one of those people wasn’t her, he would be alright.

***

“Tony’s blaming himself,” Natasha said as Steve and Sam filed into the room, the only early risers in the tower. Tony and she had sat there for the next two hours until the sun had risen.

“Tony, you’ve been out, what - three days now?” Sam shook his head. “You should have gotten some sleep.”

“I was a little busy watching that,” Tony said, pointing a finger full of blame to Natasha’s closed laptop.

Sam swiveled his gaze between Tony and Natasha quickly, everything clicking. Steve flashed him a warning look before walking to Tony.

“Tony, I know the tape is bad. But we need to find Peter.”

“Find him? We let him wander off in the middle of Queens yesterday. Where was all this bullshit about finding him then?” Tony said. He knew his fury was seeping into his words, he knew he was struggling for a foothold, but he couldn't stop them. Impulse control had never exactly been his strong suit.

“We didn’t know the extent of it, Tony. We found the videos thirty minutes after you arrived back at the Tower,” Sam said, not quite meeting his eye. "We couldn't force him to stay, not when we thought he was civilian."

“So, I was up here, partying with you all, and Steve was watching a video of Peter getting tortured?” Tony asked sharply.

“No, not exactly,” Steve said, strained.

“Clint was the one watching the video,” Natasha butted in, her face like stone. There wasn’t any sugar coating with her, was there? “And it’s a good thing he did. We needed that intel.”

“Oh, so that’s supposed to make me feel better? I’m glad, thank God, Clint was watching Peter get tortured. At least I got to enjoy some cake, and try and forget about him altogether.”

“Tony, stop,” Steve’s voice was rumbling and sincere, carrying through Tony’s furious rage. “You know this is simply protocol. Clint, Natasha, all of us, we were doing what was best. You know that.”

Tony slumped forward in the couch seat, his head falling into his hands.

“I know,” he said, his words rough and strained. “I know.”

“I only watched the first video,” he said at last, sitting back, and wrapping his arms around himself. “One fucking video.”

“That’s a lot to take in, Tony. Especially after what you - what you _both_ \- have been through.”

Tony couldn't hold back a sharp bark of laughter. “Right, what we’ve both gone through.”

“Careful, Tony,” Natasha murmured, laying a feather-light hand on his shoulder. He tensed, then released, taking in a deep breath.

“So,” he said, standing to his full height. “Let’s get Peter back then.”

He could do this. It was a missing persons. A task. A mission.

***

Sure, maybe Peter didn’t have his suit. And sure, maybe (definitely) this was a terrible idea. But he’s had worse ideas, and sitting around really wasn’t doing it for him right now. The idea of it was almost too much to consider: time alone with his thoughts and nothing else? He shuddered, just imagining it. Not an option. He stole some materials for the web shooters from Horizon Labs. They wouldn’t mind. Probably. Web shooters, a hoodie, and his old lawbreaking self. That was all he needed to be busy, to make a difference, to do anything other than sit at the top of this skyscraper, waiting for Daredevil to show up with a new suit.

He could go back in the field. He _could._ He had to.

It would be fine.

And if it wasn’t, well, the worst that could happen would be his presumed death, right? Eh. He’s taken bigger losses.

Pulling the top of his stolen hoodie over his messy hair, Peter walked to the only window not boarded up, staring out. If nothing else, the city was his again. Lights twinkled all across Queens, lighting up the polluted night sky with man-made fluorescent stars. The smell of the city should have been too far below Peter’s twenty story view, but his super-human nose could still pick up scents of dogs, perfumes, and a million other things he’d rather not think too hard about. It was his city. And he was back.

He wasn’t a coward. _He wasn’t._ He could go back in the field. He could do what he was meant to.

Hopping onto the large sill, he tugged a scarf over the bottom of his face. This would have to do well enough. One deep breath and he leaped from the skyscraper, the wind nearly immediately flipping his hoodie back. There was no stopping the _whoop!_ that escaped his lips as he shot through the night sky, flinging web after web, propelling himself.

 _This_ is what he missed the most. That moment, after he had let go of the last web and right before he shot the next one. Flying, truly flying, suspended in midair, dozens of feet above the rest of the world, completely and utterly free. Forget the Avenger’s world, forget Tony - this moment, this time, this freedom, that’s what was Peter’s. This was _his_ world, and, all things considered, it wasn’t too bad of one.

He swung around the corner of a building, pushing himself through the air like a knife, slicing the air on either side of him as if it were parting for him. It stole his breath away, pulled it from his lungs as he whipped up past another building, picking up more and more and more speed with every swing. He swung again, flicking the edge of the web shooter with refined fingers just as he hit the height of the tallest local building. Bunching up his strength, he shot up and out, launching himself from the roof, twisting straight up in the air before flipping, and nose diving down.

Skyscrapers shot past him, or maybe he was the one shooting past them. His hair, longer than he usually let it get, whipped past his face, completely windblown. And he loved it.

At the last second, he shot a web up to the top of one of the taller buildings in the area, flinging him back up, away from the ever approaching asphalt beneath. Finally, at the top, he stopped, landing on a dime on the edge of the roof. A laugh bubbled up Peter’s throat, and it didn’t feel foreign at all. For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel forced or melancholy, or anything other than _real_. He stood on the edge, throwing his arms out to either side and laughed louder, laughed for the whole city to hear.

 _He could do this._ With another deep breath, he pooled his energy and leaped off the building, the ghost of his laugh still echoing in his mind as he shot sky-high.

Steadying himself mid-air, he flipped over, ready to land feet first. The top of the next building shot towards him at lightning speeds, until Peter touched down, and felt a terrible sharp lancing pain shoot up his right side.

_No._

He couldn't help the strangled cry that escaped his lips as he stumbled forward. Desperately, he pulled at the windswept scarf hiding his face; it felt as though he couldn't breathe, the pain was climbing up his esophagus.

Leaning heavily on his left leg, he tried to take a step forward, sucking in harsh breaths through clenched teeth. As soon as he attempted to shift his right leg, the same pain as before, worse than ever, shot through him. Another cut-off whimper escaped him.

Goddamnit. Not this. Not again. He couldn't go into the field. He couldn't function. His body, his stupid, dumb, brittle body had betrayed him. It was nothing he hadn’t done before. Nothing he wouldn’t do again, assuming he ever got off this roof.

He tried taking another step forward, stubborn fury rushing up in him, but the third time was all his body could take. He fell, roughly, to the stony ground of the rooftop. He coughed heavily, leaving red spray across the gray cement.

So, internal bleeding too. He could have laughed if he weren’t so close to crying.

He leaned back, looking up at the red and purple hues of the polluted New York night sky, completely devoid of stars.

***

“Where are we supposed to start with Peter?” Sam asked as he opened three beers, his laptop pushed slightly to the side as he studied the other men.

“Queens,” Tony said automatically. “That’s where he grew up. Still considers it home.”

Steve said nothing, just raised his eyebrows slightly as he typed Queens and Peter Parker into a S.H.I.E.L.D. database. Tony would have done it himself, but Steve had higher clearance. And he wasn’t the type to give Tony his passcode.

“I’ve got considerable of hits for several different Peters, but,” Steve gave a low whistle. “But this one’s got to be yours.” He swiveled the computer around the kitchen table to show Tony.

“What?” Tony said, leaning in. His eyes scanned the hits Steve had narrowed down to his Peter. Most of them were awards he had won, in all sorts of fields, but especially, chemistry.

“Care to share with the rest of us, Tony?” Sam piped up, passing the beers around.

“S.H.I.E.L.D had him marked from day one,” he said slowly, scrolling through and scanning headlines. “But not for Spider-Man. I’m not even sure if they knew his identity before yesterday. No, these are all for his school work. Top of his chemistry class. Top of physics, too.” Tony raised his eyebrows appreciatively. “He had a scholarship his last year at Brooklyn Science’s to go to Stanford in the fall, in chemistry.” He waved a hand, finished scrolling.

“S.H.I.E.L.D wanted to scoop him up once he graduated, but he didn’t go to Stanford. He went to Bronx College. Dropped out after one year. He disappears after that.”

Tony bit his lap.

“So, we wait for sightings of Spider-Man,” Sam said, shrugging. “He’s bound to turn up sooner or later. He doesn’t know we know who he is.”

Tony refrained from kicking his chair. More waiting.

“I’ll do some more digging in S.H.I.E.L.D databases, Tony,” Steve said when he noticed Tony’s clenched jaw. “Try to sleep. Or at least function at a lesser rate of stress, if only for a few hours.”

Tony stood stiffly, and nodded, grabbing his beer. “Call me immediately if you hear anything.”

“Of course,” Steve promised, already refocused on the computer in front of him.

Reluctantly, Tony left the kitchen and the men, mind reeling no matter how much ‘sleep’ he was supposed to be getting. He wasn’t going to stop looking for Peter, no matter what. If it meant going to Queens and just wandering in a baseball cap, so be it. He’s done more with less.

***

Groggily, Peter realized he had fallen unconscious. As the world began to swim in front of him again, he stared up into blue nothingness, chilled air and a thin layer of moisture suffocating him. Groaning, he sat up, jerking once the pain in his leg returned with full force.

He wasn’t going to let it heal and then set again. He couldn't do it again. Peter shied away from what his subconscious was telling him: that he was a coward. The only thing to do was try and contact Daredevil. Though, Peter realized with a sense of overwhelming helplessness, Daredevil worked almost exclusively at night. And Peter didn’t have his old flip phone with emergency contacts. Even if he had, there wouldn’t have been anywhere to store it since his suit was long gone.

He was on his own.

“Help,” he croaked out before realizing the pointlessness of it. No one would hear him. He just had to wait. He hated waiting.

Desperately, trying to focus on anything other than the mounting pain in his femur and his torso, he traced the cloud’s shapes above him, reciting their mantra in his head.

_Dog, weasel, train, bunny, Iron Man-_

He broke off when, on the third go around, the clouds that looked rather like a barrel or freezer suddenly began looking like Tony’s mask. God, he really was losing it. Someone had better get up to the roof quick before he went completely insane.

He was dragged out of his thoughts suddenly when the door to the rooftop creaked open. Peter’s super senses picked up the scent of cigarettes, hair spray, and cotton, and soon enough, he could see a middle-aged woman, still in her pajamas, walking toward the edge of the roof with her cigarette already drawn and lit. Peter never thought he’d be so happy to see a cranky morning riser in his life.

“Hey,” he called out, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat as she lifted her head, and glanced around. “Hey,” he tried again, his voice clearer. “Yeah, the one barely holding on? That’s me.”

She turned and laid eyes on him finally, her mouth opening in surprise. Her cigarette dangled off her lip and she raised her eyebrows.

“And who are you supposed to be?”

“Your friendly neighborhood-” Peter broke off, realizing with a jolt he didn’t have the mask. Or suit. Or any suit or form of identity protection. “I’m just a civilian. I mean, kid - or rather, young adult.” He winced, both at the pain and himself.

“And what do you need help for?” She seemed to have recovered from her surprise as she drew a long hit from her cigarette, holding it delicately between two well-manicured but knobbly fingers.

“Uh,” Peter said, gesturing vaguely to his limp and helpless form. “I broke my leg. And I think I have internal bleeding.”

“Huh,” the woman said, removing the cigarette from her lips once and for all, cocking her hips to one side. “You sure?”

“Am I-” Peter blew out a frustrated breath, “Yes, I’m sure. Can I borrow a phone?”

She rolled her eyes, but handed him her phone. Peter noted the Magic Mike XXL background with a half-smile before punching in Daredevil’s number. Just as he was about to press “call,” the woman leaned in farther, her blonde hair swinging.

“So just how did you get up here?” She had thrown the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath her loafers, and now she was leaning in on Peter with crossed arms.

“How did I -” Peter was breathless, holding the phone, one button away from calling.

“Yeah,” She swept her blonde hair over one shoulder, crouching to get even closer. “You’re a weird one. Interesting,” she said with a breathy laugh. Peter could taste smoke in the air.

Still laughing, she brought her hair into a ponytail, giving her face a much more angular look. Suddenly, everything was a little off-kilter.

It couldn't be.

Not here.

Could it?

This woman. Was it her?

Peter leaned forward, dragging himself to his feet even as his leg protested.

“Whoa, kid, take it easy, I said weird, but you need to rest,” she said, giving him a scolding look. Peter’s heart skipped a beat when she fixed that disapproving glare on him. She was going to hurt him. He took an agonizing step forward, eyes fixated on her. On her blonde ponytail. Her blue eyes. Her lab coat.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, lady, but this is over,” Peter said, gripping the phone with superhuman strength. “I’m ending this, right now.”

“Kid, what’s wrong?” She said, taking a stumbling step backward.

He kept advancing, raising the phone higher. Good. She should be scared. She made him terrified for a month. She deserved this.

He opened his fist, dropping her phone to the ground.

“You’re never going to hurt anyone. Ever. Again.”

With that, he took a final excruciating step forward and clocked her temple with his right fist. She hurtled to the side, completely off guard and unable to protect herself against Peter. His strength was unchecked, his anger roared like fire in his ears.

He was not a coward.

He took another step before hitting her again, this time in the ribs, enough to hear them crack. He knew she heard them too.

He was not a coward.

Another hit, this one to her jaw. Her head snapped across lifelessly, eyes closed.

He was not a coward.

Finally, he fell to his knees, causing him to cry out painfully, arms outstretched to try and stop his fall. Pain, worse than before exploded in his thigh, and now his knee too as he fell even further; from a kneeling position to his side, clutching his left flank. He couldn't help himself; he screwed his eyes tight, willing, wishing, praying, anything for the pain to go away. After what felt like hours, but was probably only minutes, he dared to blink open his sandpaper lids again, and what he was met with nearly stopped him cold.

A woman. Middle-aged, wearing worn pajamas. She still smelled of cigarettes, but now she smelled of something else too. Blood.

Her blonde hair had become loose from its ponytail. It was a darker blonde than Peter thought. In fact, it was almost brown.

It was brown. A light, cherry brown color that clashed with the splashes of red climbing across her face. Her eyes were still closed. Gulping down air, Peter pushed himself up to sitting position and pulled himself to her side hysterically, his hands grappling against the rough cement ground of the roof even as small spider-like barbs extended from his fingers. No lab coat. No cruel eyes. No blonde hair.

He put his fingers to her neck, counting silently to himself, hoping against hope.

A pulse. Thank god.

He rocked back from her uneven breathing, unable to take his eyes off her.

He was a coward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Peter ... tune in next time?


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another signature long wait! Senior year is busy, and time is lacking, but a three-day weekend finally got this chapter out to you guys. So enjoy, and don't forget to comment/kudos if you want!! Thank you for reading!

“Peter?” A voice woke Peter from his stupor.

Hovering above him, Daredevil stood, taking in the scene around them. A woman, half-dead, lay unconscious a few feet from them.

“Daredevil,” Peter said in a broken voice. He spoke like he was dragging his words over cut glass.

“You called me? From her phone?” Daredevil asked, glancing between the two of them. “What did she do?”

“Nothing,” Peter said, head bowed. “She didn’t do anything.”

“Well, who did this to her? And you? Who hurt you?”

Before Peter could ask how he knew, Daredevil said, “I can hear your bone fragments scraping against each other. Your heart is irregular. And I can smell blood on you.”

Peter said nothing, hunching in slightly on himself. Sometimes Matt’s powers were too much, even for a guy who willingly called himself “Spider-Man.”

“Peter,” Daredevil said, crouching next to him, “It’s alright. I can protect you from whoever it was, just tell me.”

At that, Peter released a laugh so crippled Daredevil barely believed a man so young could produce it. “No one.”

“No one?”

Breathing shakily, Peter leaned his head up to stare at the sky and some of the taller buildings surrounding them. “You’re right. Not no one.”

At that, Daredevil finally took a seat next to him, a hand gently wrapped on Peter’s shoulder. “Who, Peter?”

A long pause, and then; “Me.”

Daredevil tilted his head a fraction of an inch. “What?”

“It was me, Daredevil. Me.” His voice was savage, dark, and dripping with regret.

“Peter?”

“I thought she was-” Peter broke off, dropping his head down, cutting himself off. “It doesn’t matter. I hurt her.”

“She’s not dead,” Daredevil said quickly. Her heartbeat was steady in his ears. “Just unconscious.”

“She’s lucky, then,” Peter said without inflection.

“Was she going to hurt you?” Daredevil asked, as one might ask a terrified child. The coddling did not escape Peter. It was the opposite of what he needed. The opposite of what he was about to ask.

“No. She was trying to help me,” Peter said. “She was just taking a smoke. She gave me her phone. And I nearly killed her.”

Daredevil was silent for a long time. Peter breathed in, and out, preparing himself.

“Why, Peter?” Daredevil asked before Peter had worked up enough courage to ask his own question.

“I’m broken,” Peter said, as if he were wrenching the words from deep in his soul. Daredevil opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, Peter cut him off. “I tried to do what I normally do. Go patrolling. Fling some webs. Snag a hot dog.”

He shook his head derisively. “But she broke me. Or maybe I was just too weak. Either way. I’m broken. And I nearly killed a civilian.”

“Peter …”

“Matthew,” Peter said quickly, invoking his true name, before Daredevil could say anything, “I need you to do something for me.” Tony would be furious, but that was fine. He would get over it. Move on.

Daredevil worked his jaw for a moment, staring uncannily at Peter through his mask, before finally saying, “Alright.”

“Have you ever killed before?” Peter said next, willing himself to keep going.

Matt’s mouth opened a little before he recovered quickly, his lips tightening to a thin white line. “Yes.”

A wave of sick relief washed over Peter.

“I need you to do it again.”

“I don’t kill if I can help it, Peter, and when I do-” he broke off, his voice betraying him.

“I need you to kill _me_.”

Peter’s heart pounded in his chest, dangerous and alive, pumping blood all throughout his treacherous body.

“I would do it myself, but I can’t walk. And I’m not sure I could go through with it, in the end. I need you to kill me.”

Daredevil stilled, frozen against the blue of the late autumn sky.

“Please.”

***

“Sir, there were reports of a figure swinging on webs through downtown Queens area, late last night,” J.A.R.V.I.S’s tinny voice spoke to Tony’s miniscule earpiece. “I would imagine that is Peter.”

On a dime, Tony turned the car to the opposite direction, heading away from Peter’s Aunt’s old house and toward downtown Queens. Goddamn if that wasn’t Peter.

“Any action since last night?”

“No, sir, no one saw him since he passed the North Shore Towers.”

“Then that’s where we’re heading,” Tony said resolutely. J.A.R.V.I.S said nothing.

***

“Peter you need help,” Daredevil said slowly, uncharacteristic concern lacing his words.

“No, that woman needs help.”

“She’ll be okay,” Daredevil said, barely sparing her a thought. “You, on the other hand, need help mentally and physically.”

“I can’t risk it.” Peter said, his voice stringent. “I cannot. I will not. If I had hit her differently, she could be dead right now. I can _lift cars,_ Matt, without breaking a sweat. Snapping her neck wouldn’t be difficult. I’d rather be dead than kill someone.”

Daredevil flinched. Peter closed his eyes, and bit his bottom lip. _Stupid, stupid._

“You know what I mean. Killing someone innocent.”

“What do you think it would be like to kill _you?_ ”

“Does this look innocent to you?” Peter exclaimed, gesturing to the woman. “Please, Matt. You’ve got to do it.”

“No.”

“If you don’t, I’ll do it myself. I just … I didn’t want to have to.”

Daredevil curled his lip. “If you’re going to make that decision, I’m having no part of it, except to say, you shouldn’t.”

“I’m responsible. For this, for myself. If I can’t handle this power, I have no business walking around with it in me. It’s the only option. I don’t have time to try and ‘fix it.’” Peter ran a shaking hand through his sweaty curls. “The best thing-the _only_ thing-is for you to kill me. Or for me to kill myself. I had just hoped-” he broke off, not looking Matt in the eyes. Matt was close to him - barely a foot away. Biting his tongue against the pain, he propelled himself to Daredevil before the other man could react He grabbed Daredevil’s hand and positioned it underneath his jaw.

“Right here,” Peter said, shaking. “It’d be like snapping a glow-stick.”

“ _Peter?”_

Peter stiffened, Matt’s hand stilled in his grip. Tony, in nothing but his gauntlets, jeans, and a hoodie, stood opposite them on the roof. His face was shifting, flickering quickly as he looked over the terrible scene before him.

Matt drew his hand from Peter’s once he had recovered, the first of them to recover in Tony’s presence.

“Iron Man,” he said solemnly, his voice taking on a quality Peter didn’t recognize.

“Peter,” Tony said again, staring at him. He lowered his gauntlets slowly, eyes flicking over him as if checking every bit of him to make sure he wasn’t hurt.

Then his eyes landed on the woman.

“Who’s she?” Tony asked, raising his gauntlets again. “What did she do to you?”

Peter almost choked on the bile rising in his throat. Daredevil stepped in quickly, standing between Tony and the woman.

“Tony, you should call 911 for the woman. And we need to get out of here. You and Peter have a lot to discuss.”

He gave Peter a pointed look, but pained sympathy betrayed the scolding nature of it. Peter couldn't hold his gaze.

“Okay,” Tony said after a moment, realizing whatever he had walked in on was larger than he had anticipated. Larger than he could handle. _Not that he wouldn’t try, of course,_ Peter thought to himself with a pang of melancholy affection. He should have just taken care of the issue before Daredevil refused him.

He allowed himself to be supported on Daredevil’s and Tony’s shoulders, and even, despite his better judgement, allowed himself to enjoy the warm strength underneath Tony’s sweatshirt. He allowed himself to relax in his familiar smell, his familiar everything. It was a dangerous slope, Peter knew, but he couldn't stop himself from relaxing in the total familiarity of Tony. He could do what he meant to do later, but right now, right now, that was with Tony. And for now, it would be alright.

***

Peter decided, without a doubt, that he hated med bays. The only place worse than med bays were hospitals, but, in the Avengers Tower, hospitals were obsolete. One of the floors was a fully functioning medical facility, with equipment Peter had never seen in all his past first - aid needs.

“Peter, please, just let us take a look at you,” Bruce said, his glasses pushed up his nose. Tony sat on the edge of the room, hunched over in a chair. A few attendees had been bustling about, but Peter demanded them go. So, now they were three; Tony, Bruce, and Peter.

“I can’t-” Peter said, shaking, his broken leg resting on the cot. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Peter,” Tony said quietly from the corner, in his chair. “Peter, we know. You don’t need to hide it.”

“Know what?” He couldn't control the slight crack in his voice.

Tony kept his gaze trained carefully on the floor, studying every line in his elaborate tiles.

“Your identity.”

Peter felt his heart drop to his knees. “What?”

“You’re Spider-Man.”

He choked on his breath, a tiny convulsion shuddering through him as Tony spoke the words. His spidey-sense whispered through his veins, warning him a moment too late of the danger accompanying Tony’s words. His right leg throbbed in the off-beat with pain.

“I’m sorry, Peter. I know how hard this is. We all do,” Bruce put a warm hand on Peter’s shoulder, the touch just light enough to make itself known, but not heavy enough to scare him. It worried Peter, how good Bruce was at making him feel calm. He might let down his guard.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Came Tony’s voice from the corner. The hand on Peter’s shoulder stiffened slightly.

“Tony,” Bruce said in a hushed tone, glancing to him, “not now.”

For the first time, Tony looked up, finally meeting Peter in the eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He said again, louder.

“I’m sorry, Tony,” Peter said, but stopped after that. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t told Tony, but at the time, it had felt like the right call. And Peter had had too many close calls to stop trusting his gut now.

“Don’t apologize,” Tony said, as if the word left a bad taste in his mouth, “I just … I don’t understand how you didn’t trust me.”

“Maybe I should go,” Bruce said suddenly, glancing between them, a hand rubbing the underside of his neck.

“Don’t,” Tony said quickly, glancing to Peter’s leg. “He still needs treatment.”

“He needs treatment from a real doctor.”

“You have a license, Bruce.”

“Good enough for me,” Peter butted in, trying to give Bruce a look that said _I trust you, and also, if you mess up and hurt me, it’s okay, don’t feel bad._

Bruce just swallowed heavily.

“So, your right leg?”

Peter huffed a groan that was half laugh, and looked down at his warped form. “Yeah.”

“How did it break?”

“The first time?” Peter asked, raising one eyebrow. “Hammer.”

Bruce winced.

Tony looked up again. “And the second time?”

“I landed on a rooftop, snapped it.” His voice was barely audible. It felt wrong, dangerous, to talk about Spider-Man activities, even though everyone around him knew.

“Here?” Bruce lay a hand on his upper thigh, feeling the muscle gently. Peter couldn't contain the hiss of pain that escaped his lips. Bruce nodded. “I thought so.”

He pulled over a long black light looking device, and pushed goggles up his nose, and began to scan Peter’s leg.

“Safer than an X-ray,” he explained idly, his eyes twitching back and forth as he read the readout on his goggles’ display. “It’s your femoral shaft, Peter. I’m afraid I’ll have to go invasive to fix it.”

“Are you sure?” Peter asked, biting his bottom lip. “I’ve got a healing factor. And it’s healed once.”

“It didn’t heal, not correctly. That’s why I’ve got to do the surgery.”

Peter shut his eyes for a moment, trying to flush out his fear.

“Did Daredevil tell you what he and I were … discussing before Tony showed up?” Peter asked.

“No,” Tony said from the corner. “He just said that you and I had to talk.”

“About that …” He trailed off. There could be time to talk. If he let Bruce deal with his leg. The longer he was incapacitated, the less opportunity he’d have to go back out in the open. And he still wasn’t sure he could get the job done himself. It was a dirty job, trying to kill yourself. Peter wasn’t sure he had the stomach for it.

“It’s not a big deal. We can talk about it after … well, after the surgery.”

Peter forced down a wave of renewed fear. He’d be unconscious because of gas, he couldn't have nightmares then, right? The drugs would put him out, completely. Right?

“Sure, Tony,” He agreed finally, looking down. Tony was looking down too. Only Bruce seemed to be able to keep his eyes off the floor.

He huffed a sigh. “So, Peter, if that’s all, I suppose we can get started.”

“That’s all? Don’t you need my blood type or whatever?”

Bruce tapped the side of his glasses, still on his head. “That’s what I’ve got this for.”

“Seems like a little bit of an invasion of privacy, if you ask me,” He said, settling back in the cot, so far from the woman’s laboratory, and yet, so similar.

Bruce had the decency to quirk half a smile in Peter’s direction. “If you’d just lie back now, and count backward from ten.”

“I mentioned I have a healing factor, right?”

“This stuff puts Captain America right out. I’m sure it’ll have no problem on you.”

Just as Peter’s vision was beginning to swim, Tony stood from his chair without looking at Peter, and left the room, leaving him alone. Before he could say anything, he counted to down to one, and the room went black.  

  



	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look who's back!! It's me! And another chapter! Things are finally sort of/kind of taking an upswing for our boys, so read on! Thanks for sticking with me through the chaos that is senior year. Enjoy!
> 
>  
> 
> (TW for mentions of suicide)

In the hallway, Tony paced back and forth, counting each tile he stepped on with his several thousand dollar shoes. Peter would be unconscious by now. Bruce had probably already made the invasive cut. His stomach flipped in his gut, and he clapped a hand over his mouth before he could vomit all over his nice tile. Scratchy hairs against his palm reminded him that it had been too long since he’d shaved, being home. 

“Tony?” 

He raised his head as Captain America walked around the corner, the two coffees in his grip dwarfed by his large hands. 

“Steve? What are you doing here?” Tony asked, stopping his pacing. 

“I’m going to wait with you. What does it look like I’m doing?” He said, handing a coffee to Tony. 

“Why?”

“Because if Peter’s a part of your team, he’s a part of our team too. Together or not at all, Tony. Besides, I’m not heartless. I want the kid to be okay.” He fixed Tony with a sharp look. “And I want you to be okay too.”

_ Be okay? I haven’t shaved in days and I’m not sure I even care. I'm miles from okay. _

“Well, I appreciate that,” he said, taking a sip of the coffee. Not too hot, nor too cold, with just the right amount of cream. Steve made coffee better than anyone else in the tower. 

“You know,” Steve said slowly, sitting in two of the expensive ergonomic chairs Tony had bought for the med wing waiting area, “When Bucky came back, he was really worse for wear.”

Tony snorted, leaning forward in his seat. “An understatement.”

“He wasn’t who I remembered him being. He changed, Tony. He went through hell, more than once. And I didn’t know. I didn’t do anything about it. Not for decades. Even when he came back, I didn’t understand, not at first.”

“I seem to remember fighting a whole war about it, Steve.”

“That’s my point, Tony.” He breathed deeply, and placed his coffee mug on the tiled floor beside their chairs. “I did what I thought was best, but I wasn’t there for him. And it backfired. He put himself on ice to avoid hurting more people. But you can be in front of this. Ready for this. You can be there for him.”

“I’m here for Peter,” Tony said, rather indignantly. 

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Tony said hotly, swiveling in his seat to face Steve. 

"You have to have tough love. Have understanding. Listen to your feelings, and to his. Don’t let him get too far off the deep end. And …” he trailed off, staring at Tony carefully. 

“And?” He prompted, staring back. 

“And you have to understand that he may never be completely better. He’ll always carry this with him. Whatever ‘this’ was. I don’t know the whole story. I’m just telling you my two cents.”

There was a pause, and Tony could just barely hear the electricity humming through the bay. “I know.” He breathed out deeply.  “I don’t expect him to ever completely leave this behind. I mean, you watched that video, right?” 

Steve was silent, but nodded.

“I know what it’s like. To not be able to deal. To try and - to try and live with something like that. I want to help him, I’m just - I’m not sure I’m the best person for him.”

“You are Tony. I know you.” Steve gripped Tony’s shoulder. “I know. And I’m here to wait it out with you.”

Tony gave a wry chuckle and caught Steve’s eye. 

“And you’re here to make the best damn coffee this side of the Mississippi.”

***

It was good he had decided to secure down Peter’s limbs, Bruce decided as Peter’s form jerked in his slumber again. He didn’t know what Peter was thinking. He didn’t want to know. 

But his movement was making it difficult to get anything done. He had made the incision. The bone fragments would require a delicate hand, which was impossible to provide if your patient was practically doing the boogie horizontal on the operating theater. Taking a deep breath, he placed his equipment on the edge of Peter’s thigh, ready to try one more time. 

“No - not the-”   
Peter’s voice tripped over his words as he protested thoughtlessly through his drug-induced unconsciousness. Bruce backed off immediately, exhaling frustratedly as he leaned back on his heels.  _ There wasn’t going to be an easy way to do this, was there, _ he thought to himself.  _ Just once, would it have killed you to have an easy time of it? _ He thought in Peter’s direction, more melancholy than angry. He didn’t have any other choice. He hoped the painkiller half of it would last. 

With that, he injected Peter with a compound of adrenaline, painkiller, and miscellaneous factors to wake him up. 

Slowly, and with a groan Bruce wished he didn’t have to hear, Peter came to.

“Relax,” Bruce said quickly, placing light hands on Peter’s chest, pushing him back down. “I had to wake you up. You were all over the place. Jumpy. I couldn't do the surgery. I need you awake. You’ve got to focus.”

Blearily, Peter blinked rapidly, looking around the operating theater. 

“No,” he choked when he saw his thigh, open and bleeding. The attendant behind Bruce loomed over him, a mask covering the bottom half of his face. 

“It’s okay, Peter,” Bruce said again. “How are you?”

“Just peachy,” Peter ground out, finally realizing where he was. He tilted his head back up at the ceiling, looking anywhere other than his leg. 

“I need you to hold completely still for me, do you understand?” Bruce asked, wasting no time. “And if the pain is too much, you have to let me know.”

“It won’t be,” Peter assured him in a broken tone. “Just do it.”

Peter looked up at Bruce, watching his careful hands grip the equipment and study the wound on his leg. 

“This will be over soon. Just hold on.”

_ Grin and bear it, _ Bruce prayed.  _ This is the last time you have to do something like this, Peter. Please just hold on. I’m so sorry. _

***

Tony and Steve fell into a silence that was more of a hug than a chill. Waiting companionably for Peter to be out of surgery. Tony, waiting a little more antsy than Steve, his nervousness compounded by his coffee. 

“Tony?”

Bruce, mask around his neck and gloves already thrown out, disturbed the two of them out of their stupor. 

“How is he?” Steve asked.

He said nothing, but looked to Tony

“He’s asking for you,” Bruce said. 

“For me?”

Bruce nodded. “Come on, I’ll walk you down.”

Tony stood, his palms sweating and shaking.

“I’ll be here when he’s ready,” Steve said quietly, his voice steady and peaceful. “Go see him.”

As they left, Tony’s brain couldn't stop thinking one thing:  _ He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s asking for me; he’s awake and talking and coherent and he’s  _ asking for me.

“I had to wake him up,” he told Tony, regret making his words stringent. “He was having nightmares, even with the extra dosage. He had to be awake, he had to be still. He might be a little on edge still.”

Tony nodded silently, but didn’t really pay the warning much heed, his mind still only thinking one thing:  _ he’s okay. _

“I’ll leave you both alone,” Bruce said, opening the door to Peter’s room silently, holding it for Tony. 

Tony waited for the door to shut completely behind him before he turned to Peter. He was sitting up, as best as one could in a hospital bed, his leg encased in bandages and cast. His face was sweaty, and the gray shade in its undertones worried him. 

“Peter?” He asked quietly, running an unconscious hand over his stubble. “How are you, Peter?”

“Better, now that Bruce gave me every super-painkiller in the five boroughs,” Peter said, but before he could finish the word ‘boroughs,’ he broke down into a wet, hacking cough.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “It sounds worse than it is. Please, don’t worry.”

“Sure,” Tony said, lying through his teeth. “You’ve looked worse. I’m sure it’s fine.”

“That’s the spirit,” Peter said wanly, watching him with an expression Tony couldn't decipher. 

“Why’d you want to see me, Peter?”

“I need to have a reason?”

Tony said nothing.

“To admire your glorious goatee,” Peter said to break the silence. “Sorry. I know I sound like I took a cheese grater to my throat.”

“It’s fine,” Tony said, barely above a whisper. “You’re okay.”

“I would say I’ve never been better but I’m not a very good liar.”

“You’re a great liar,” Tony said without thinking, a wave of familiar impatient anger roiling up in him. 

Peter took in a deep breath, studying the intricate lighting above him rather than meet Tony’s eyes. “That’s why I asked for you, Tony. To explain. I’m not even sure if I can.”

“Give it a go,” Tony said, surprising even himself at the harshness of his tone.

With a groan, Peter shifted in his bed, pulling himself with some difficulty to the side. “Come sit.”

He blinked rapidly, brow furrowing. “What?”

“You’re not an idiot, Tony. You understand. I want you to come here.”

Something was different. Different even since the last time he remembered Peter in the quinjet, too afraid to even knock on his suite door to come inside to sleep in his bed. Something had happened. 

***

Peter looked at Tony carefully, watching his reaction as he asked him to sit in the bed with him. It was a test, kind of. Sure, he did want Tony as close to him as possible. He also wanted to make sure he wasn’t imagining any of this. And most of all, he was giving himself one last chance before he had to kill himself. He’d talk to Tony. Maybe do more. He’d be with him, at least, on his last day.

“Okay,” he finally conceded and climbed into Peter’s hospital bed after sliding off his shoes. Peter vaguely wondered if those shoes could pay off his student loans. 

Tony smelled a little different now; cleaner and more expensive. Peter’s expert senses picked up several soaps and products, the most powerful being some sort of surely extravagant perfume. But underneath it all, he was still Tony, whom Peter had met only five or six weeks ago. 

“You know how you found me at the top of that building? With Daredevil?”

“Yeah,” Tony said slowly like he wasn’t quite sure he wanted to say anything at all. 

“Remember that woman?” At this, Peter’s voice cracked. 

Tony nodded apprehensively. 

“It was me. Did we tell you that? I don’t remember. But it was me. I asked to borrow her phone, because I had broken my leg again, and I was stranded. But,” he shuddered, and looked at one tiny spot on the opposite wall as if his life depended on it, “but when she got close to me, my mind went haywire. I thought she was the woman. From the bunker. I thought she had found me, she hacked the system, she  _ had me again.  _ I couldn't think, Tony, I couldn't do anything other than defend myself.”

“It’s not your fault, Peter,” Tony said as soon as Peter stopped for breath. “It’s not, it’s not. I swear it.”

“Does it matter?”

“What?” Tony asked, taken aback. “Of course it matters.”

“Even if she made me this way, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not to be trusted. I can’t trust my surroundings. I can’t trust myself.”

“You can trust me, Peter. Please,” Tony begged him, placing a hand on the arm closest to him. 

Peter closed his eyes briefly at his touch, tethering himself to it for the next part. It was selfish to take comfort from Tony, considering what he was about to ask him, but Peter was past caring. This was his last chance to be with him. 

“I need you to do something for me, Tony. I didn’t want it to have to be you, but you’re right. You’re the only one I do trust.”

“What, Peter?”

Peter let his eyes close again. He didn’t want to see the hospital room around him, he didn’t want to see the machine he was hooked up to, he didn’t want to his heartbeat on the monitor. The only thing he wanted was to remember Tony’s touch and the way his eyes met his when he told him he could trust him. But before he’d ask that, he had to do one thing. 

Opening his eyes, he twisted his body, ignoring the pain in his leg. He wrapped a hand over Tony’s opposite shoulder and pulled him toward him with just a touch of that superhuman strength. 

“Peter,” Tony said in a low voice. It wasn’t a protest. 

Slowly, Peter’s hand traveled up Tony’s shoulder until he cradled his head inches from his own. “For once,” he said in a rough tone, “don’t interrupt. Don’t say anything at all. I’m trying not to be blinded by you right now.”

And with that, he leaned in, and met Tony’s lips with his own. Immediately, his eyes swept closed, and he leaned in again, pushing more aggressively. Tony’s hands wrapped around his back, and pulled him closer, and Peter couldn't believe he had done it.  _ If I have to go out, this isn’t such a bad way, _ a crazed part of his mind thought as he wrapped his hand up in Tony’s hair. Tony’s mouth was warm, firm, and Peter couldn't think straight. Theirs’ was not a fevered kiss, stolen in the night; it was full and long and it took it’s time as Peter let one of his hands travel up Tony’s shirt, resting in his chest hair and around his arc reactor. Tony, in kind, pushed against Peter, careful to not disturb his leg as he pulled Peter’s long curly hair tight in his grip, his skull less than a centimeter from his own.  

They lay next to one another for a while afterward, content to not speak. Speaking would shatter their perfect world, the one where nothing was wrong, and the bed they were in was Tony’s king-sized mattress, not a hospital bed. Peter couldn't bring himself to ask his question, not right away. It was selfish, he knew, but he wanted to live in this moment for just another minute. 

But then, suddenly, the face of the mousy brown-haired woman flashed before his eyes. He flinched, eyes screwing shut for a moment. 

“Peter?” Tony asked, his voice gravelly from disuse. “Are you okay?”

Peter opened his mouth to respond, to lie, to get away from the conversation, but then he realized he couldn't. It had shattered. He had to face the music now. At least his last memory would be a good one. 

“No, Tony. I need you to do something for me. Then I can be okay.”

“If it’s anything like what we just did, don’t worry.” Tony’s voice had a light quality that Peter craved. He hated that he was about to shatter that too. 

“Not quite, Tony. It’s a lot … it’s different.” Peter shifted in Tony’s arms slightly. 

“It’s not your fault,” Tony said again, quietly, as soon as Peter stopped to pull in a breath so shaky it rattled his ribcage. “It’s not, I swear.”

“There’s only one way I can think to get out of this. I need to be taken out of commission.” His words were barely audible, covered in fear and sorrow. “I need you to kill me. You’re a genius. You can make it painless. Quick.”

Peter hated the way Tony’s body stiffened next to his as he spoke his request aloud. There was no going back now. He’d pay for his crimes, and he’d avoid committing anymore in the future. 

“No.”

“Tony, please, you don’t understand,” Peter protested before Tony had a chance, ignoring the renewed pain in his thigh as he pushed himself up in the bed. “You have to.”

“No way. There’s another option. Therapy, for starters. Keeping you away from civilians, for another.” Tony grabbed Peter’s arm, staring at him directly. “You aren’t dying. No way. I just got you back. You’re safe, actually, truly, safe. You’re back.”

“I can’t wait around to get better, Tony, I can’t.”

“Peter, I have it too.” Tony said finally, resting a hand on the side of Peter’s face. “After Afghanistan, and really after that whole wormhole thing. Nightmares. I couldn't sleep alone. I almost shot Pepper with an old suit because I was so far gone.”

“What?” Peter asked, his mouth dry. “You have- you have PTSD?”

“Call it what you will. I call it a pain in the ass. But I have a handle on it. A grip. You’ll get one too, but only if you  _ stay alive. _ ” Tony said, his voice shaking as he looked at Peter’s broken form.

A thousand thoughts went through Peter's mind at once, exploding in every corner of his brain. 

“You can’t let me near civilians,” Peter said, a tremor cutting his words in half. After a long pause, he said, “I’m not making any promises. But I’ll stay in the tower. With you.” Tears marked his words.

“It’ll get better,” Tony said, pulling Peter in for a closer hold as Peter broke down. “Just stay with us.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Questions? Concerns? Particularly good crumpet recipes? Leave them in the comments below!! I love to hear from you guys!


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